


Knight Takes King

by darkforetold



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accidental Domestic Bliss, Accidental Relationship, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Breathplay, Brief Mention of Past Relationship (Castiel/Inias), Businessman Castiel, Daddy Issues, Dom Dean, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Dubious Ethics, Enemies to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Kept Boy Dean, Light Angst, M/M, Mention of Minor Character Death, Panic Attacks, Power Play, Rough Sex, Slow Burn, Sub Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-04-06 02:24:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 59,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4204380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkforetold/pseuds/darkforetold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> <img/> </p>
<p>Castiel Sant'Angelo has the perfect life. He's the young, handsome, and successful CEO of Goldman Sachs with a luxurious Upper East Side apartment and sweeping views of Central Park. He sorts his brand-name ties by color and keeps his kitchen <i>spotless</i>. Everything is just how he wants it: neat, orderly, and efficient.</p>
<p>Then Dean Winchester happens.</p>
<p>Anonymous sex in a seedy gay bar and Sam's drug problems lead to Dean and Castiel agreeing to a deal neither can refuse. Another twist of fate has them living together and nothing is neat, orderly, and efficient anymore. Instead, Castiel's life is forever upended by pie, Dr. Sexy, boxed wine and take-out. </p>
<p>Dean has become his Apocalypse of noise and chaos, yet he can't seem to care—not when Dean touches him like that.</p>
<p>This is a story about letting go and being kinder, about love and the power it has to change one's life for the better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Art: [ @shinzz1](http://shin-loves-endverse-destiel.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Dedication: To Dean and Castiel. Thank you for the quiet moments of intimacy you share together, the simple glances that mean everything, and doing impossible things for each other. Your relationship has changed me for the better and has fueled a five-year passion for writing; something I'd always loved and wanted to do, but never did because I wasn't inspired. You both inspire me and make me fearless enough to put words on a blank page.
> 
> Thank you for falling in love in a million different ways through fanfiction and fanart. What I've written here in _Knight Takes King_ is just one of those ways, and I hope you had fun falling in love as much as I had fun writing it.
> 
> You are both my white knights. Thank you for the gifts you've given me over these past few years.
> 
> Never change.

“I _don’t_ want to hear your _excuses_ ,” Castiel growled into his phone.

“Cover’s ten dollars.”

He handed the bouncer a wad of cash and pushed past him, switching the phone to his other ear. “Listen to me _very carefully_ …”

“We've got pickpockets. Probably best to keep your wallet in your front pocket—"

“—if I don’t get the financial analysis on the Draper-Larkin acquisition on my desk by six o’clock sharp tomorrow morning, I will personally make sure you never work on Wall Street again. Am I completely understood?” He nodded. “ _Good_. Don’t fucking disappoint me.”

Castiel hung up and shoved the phone in his front pocket. Something hot and corrosive surged through his veins, pumping with the music as he strode down the long, dark corridor. A seventy-five billion dollar deal in the hands of incompetent employees—fucking perfect. He clenched his teeth. Pushing into the main room, the urge to strangle someone— _anyone_ —completely disappeared.

East Village's sleazy gay bar, _Edge_ , swallowed him up in sultry heat. Its thick, stale air filled his lungs. Excited him. Made him want to make a connection quickly and fuck until he forgot about investments, numbers, and acquisitions. Though he hadn't been here in months, nothing had changed. It was a typical Friday night. Gyrating bodies packed the floor. Piss and come hung in the air like perfume. Dance music, loud and thumping, coursed through the place as if it were the bar's lifeblood. The dark walls, darker floors, and dim lighting encouraged sin in every corner, and the red-lettered sign— _No Sexual Activity Allowed_ —went unnoticed by everyone. Pictures of naked men on the walls, two go-go boys drowning in each other, touching and grabbing... it was desperation, hunger, and debauchery at its finest.

Someone grabbed his ass in the dark, but he hardly paid it any attention. No one came to _Edge_ expecting to walk away without being groped—or possibly pickpocketed. He checked his suit pants. Phone, wallet, keys, all in his two front pockets. Personal belongings secure, he stepped toward the bar—when another hand swung out to cup him. He blocked low, but wasn't quick enough. The offender grinned wide with his considerable handful, and Castiel shut him down with a look that could chill the Devil. In his Armani suit and tie, he was all clean lines and chiseled features. The proverbial gazelle in the middle of a pride of starving lions. A prize. A challenge. He was smart enough to know he'd attract more than his share of unwanted attention.

At the bar, glasses clinked and hungry eyes stared. There was a bark of laughter. Talks of sex spiked the air with low-buzzing excitement. He sat down and ordered a shot. When the music stopped, the sounds of fucking floated out from the bathroom. More men grabbed each other. Kissed. Someone groaned in a corner. The music started up again, and it all died under a wave of beats and sing-song voices.

He threw back his shot and ordered another, letting its burn settle in his stomach. Something... made him look over a shoulder—that telltale tingle down the spine, the thought that someone might be watching. A sea of faces looked back, including one in particular. His heart jumped. Brown hair, just long enough to be swept to one side, short enough to show his eyes. They'd be slate gray. Pleading, always needing more than he could possibly give. 

He turned back around, took his second shot and ordered a third. His stomach clenched and twisted, but a quarter of that was because of the liquor itself. The rest of it...

He let out a slow, careful exhale. Behind him, a pair of eyes tore him apart, piece by piece, gauging and dissecting. Deciding the best way to approach a lion—the same one that had torn him to shreds and left him dying a few years ago. _He_ was the whole reason he'd never commit to anyone ever again. Their relationship had been complicated. Messy. And after the dramatic fallout, he knew he was better off being completely alone.

By the time he'd taken his third shot, the man had sidled next to him. Close. Enough that the smell of his cologne—cheap, inelegant—clued him in. Whoever this was... he wasn't who Castiel thought it'd been. A mixture of relief and disappointment murdered the butterflies in his stomach. 

Castiel slid his eyes sidelong, slowly raking them up his form, to his face. Blue eyes stared back under a fringe of brown hair, belonging to a boy barely into his twenties. Delicate bone structure, a shade of stubble on his jaw line. Almost pretty. Certainly not his accountant he'd had a passionate affair with for two whole months—no, not Inias, but close enough.

The boy beamed a dimpled smile, but it rang false. His self-confidence didn't run deeper than a shallow creek and his imitation designer brand clothes were an insult to his sleek frame. The gawking and staring—he was as obvious as an enormous elephant with his want. Graceless. He wanted to fuck some dignity into him, strip away all the boyish charm and turn him into a man. Right then, he'd forgotten why he himself had come here: to get fucked until he couldn't walk. For a moment, all he could think about was grabbing the boy's hair, forcing him to his knees, and giving him a mouthful. Watch his blue, half-lidded eyes turn black while he sucked on his cock. 

His young suitor said something to him, but it was lost in the loud music. When the music finally stopped, he took another chance.

"What do you do?"

That was his plan: small talk. Predictable. Ineffective.

"Investments."

"Investments? Like money?" His Inias-lookalike looked bewildered. "What are you doing in a shitty place like this?"

_Hunting._

His lips quirked humorlessly, and the boy flashed him a dimpled smile. "Can I buy you a drink?"

When his voice cracked, the boy shifted his weight nervously. He jerked his head to one side to get the hair out of his eyes—and it was the sparkle there, the hopefulness in shades of blue, that told him everything. How the boy wanted so badly to kill his first shark although he was a guppy. How it was his first time in an ocean of piranhas. It was a note of innocence that reminded him of Inias again. Reminded him how... beautifully his accountant begged for him, how eager he was to please. The noises he used to make. 

Castiel swept a gentle touch across his forehead, moving the hair out of his face. The boy offered up another smile for sacrifice, closed his eyes and groaned when Castiel slipped his fingers in and gripped his hair a little harder. He wouldn't be like Inias, exceedingly pliable or like butter in his hands. He wouldn't be able to mold or shape him, wouldn't be seen as a god in his eyes. There was an unmanageable fire in him, and the risk outweighed the reward. In the end, he'd be disappointed. The boy would never be like Inias. He'd be left with a cheap substitute in his bed. If he had time, patience, if he cared, he'd willingly break him if he didn't want to be broken himself for once. 

Castiel let him go. "Your attentions would be better spent elsewhere."

The music started again. 

"But I want you..." were the words next to his ear.

The boy's hand lunged for his cock. It didn't make it that far. Castiel caught and squeezed his wrist until his almost-pretty face screwed up in pain.

"Wanting and having are two different things, _boy_."

Whether he heard him over the music or not, it didn't matter. The boy took the hint, wretched his hand away, and disappeared into the crowd, leaving behind an empty barstool. Hungry eyes descended on him like a plague of locusts. He hedged off one of his would-be suitors with a glare, then ordered another shot. Knocked it back before the bartender had a chance to set it down. The boy looked so much like his accountant, and the thought of seeing him after all this time—unnerved him. The fact that he'd lost his composure disturbed him even more.

He exhaled sharply and glanced over a shoulder, suddenly desperate to make a connection. Any connection. Bears, twinks, they were all here, attaching to one another like suction cups on glass. Men much older than him, some his age, others a few years younger—none of them interesting, but in a pinch, some of them would do. 

In the corner sat a lone bear, gray hair, more than ten years older, with enough weight behind him to drive his thick cock so deep he'd simply break. He had a plan, and it was much simpler than the boy's: drag the burly man into the bathroom and let him fuck the nicest ass he'd ever get.

His plan changed with a throaty growl. 

It had come from the mouth of the bar, loud enough to thunder low between beats of music. Not human, but a monster. Mechanical with a steel skeleton, with chrome shining in streetlight. Not a car—at least, not one made in recent years—but a motorcycle. Its engine revved like a snarling beast. Then, nothing. Music blared again. He waited, watching the wall that separated the dark corridor and the main room. Any minute he'd come around the corner, an owner built like a machine with enough power to fuck him senseless.

He expected a barrel-chested man, heavyset with arms as thick as tree trunks. Stern face, a beard maybe. What walked in was none of that. He was tall with a face that belonged to a runway model; strong jaw line, cheekbones and good, clean skin. His black T-shirt clung to him, his faded jeans molded to the subtle shape of his hips. Perfection, personified as a man, walked toward him with a cocky, bow-legged swagger and an even cockier smile, like he knew he was worthy of being chased. Even his cowboy boots and tattoo sleeves made him sexy.

Sexy but not his type. He preferred unattractive that was easy to forget. Wanted something that was both rugged and plain, not beautiful. This man was his least favorite type of beautiful: the type that would get under his skin and stuck in his head long after the night was over. The type of beautiful that shouldn't be rushed, that should instead be enjoyed over several long hours like aged wine or nine-course meal at a five-star restaurant. The expensive type of beautiful. An investment.

He didn't have time for an investment.

But that investment had time for _him_. Slid in next to him as if there was no doubt they were a match. Already, Castiel could tell he was different by proximity alone. He was a warm summer breeze on the cold busy streets of New York City. His comfortable lean didn't shun physical contact. It welcomed it. Their arms touched for a second and in that second, he imagined himself somewhere else. Away from the music, the drinks, the moans in dark corners. Somewhere better. Under sheets and against his skin, warm and satisfied.

He blinked and looked up at him. His skin flushed under his—green?—eyes, melted off when the beautiful stranger gave him a smile. There was no New York City winter in that smile. It didn’t gleam vicious and sharp like it would have if he’d been born and raised on Wall Street. It was genuine and wide, brilliant enough to reach his eyes and make them sparkle. Mischief was written all over his face, telling him he'd spent his whole life breaking hearts with his charm and that breathtaking smile.

"Dean," his beautiful stranger said, pointing to himself. Another half-cocked smile.

"Lucas," he lied.

"Lucas," Dean echoed. "Let me buy you a drink."

No, he had a different plan. Castiel stood up. He thought he'd made up his mind to be sensible, leave and never look back. Drop his investment, his beautiful stranger, and find something less... risky. But standing here, so close to him, their bodies burning with the heat between them... The thought of being fucked by him made his cock hard. He wondered what a body like that could do to him. How hard his beautiful stranger could fuck him. Bottom, top, it didn't matter. Whatever Dean demanded, however he needed it. Wanting him made the hairs on his neck stand on end, and gooseflesh bubbled up on his arms. He swallowed thickly. The air had gone dry. Stuffy. Couldn’t tell if he was breathing at all. No. He wouldn't be sensible. He was already long gone.

Castiel leaned in. His lips grazed the shell of his ear. "Let's cut the bullshit. We both know why we're here."

Dean turned his head minutely, inward. Barely an inch apart. Dean looked at his eyes, then down to his lips. Studied them, making Castiel want him more. "Your place?"

"No."

Castiel tipped his head back. Dean looked past him to the bathroom, then met his eyes. Staring at him as if he were contemplating jumping off the Empire State Building. Dean licked his full lips and nodded. Elation raced through his veins. Adrenaline was the best drug in the house.

They left together and headed for the bathroom. Inside, it was empty, brighter than the rest of the bar had been, with more pictures of naked men on the walls. It smelled of piss, shit and come, and it made his head swim. Behind him, Dean herded him to the only stall, and they stepped inside. Closed the door. 

Castiel turned to face him—and Dean collapsed in on him like a house of cards. His body turned to jelly against his, their foreheads pressed together, lips so close he could almost taste the whiskey on Dean's breath. Then Dean cupped his face, his thumbs sweeping across his cheekbones. Castiel didn't want to love it like he did. He didn't want to need it. In a city that couldn't afford to be gentle, Dean could. And it was because of him, his gentleness, that made him believe New York City could somehow be beautiful—just like him. 

Here, in the brighter light, he was more than beautiful. Dean was a type of _fuck you_ gorgeous that was intoxicating, dangerous and absolutely unforgettable. Freckles dusted his nose, his cheeks, and his green eyes overflowed with passion that didn't belong here. He was stunning. Breathtaking. More than that, there was beauty beyond his skin. It was in his soul. 

God must have loved him best.

Dean stared into his eyes, then at his lips. Began to lean forward. He intended to kiss him, but he’d never get that far. This wasn't _that_. This was a hard fuck, here then gone. 

"Don't," Castiel snapped.

Dean’s eyes narrowed, darkened, maybe understanding the purpose of his role in what this was supposed to be: anonymous sex. Fast, rough and unfeeling. Dean bracketed his hands against the stall. 

"Turn around."

Firm on his lips, the command made him spin. _For free fucks, call_... stared at him while Castiel fumbled with his belt. Fingers both sweaty and trembling, they slipped over the buckle. Dean's breath was hot and heavy on his neck and his own cock leapt with impatience. More fumbling—he'd tear it apart with his goddamn hands if he had to. 

Once he unhooked his belt and dropped his pants, he thumbed down his underwear. The anticipation made him shake. He'd become that boy he'd met earlier in the bar: a gawking, _needy_ , ungraceful mess. 

His doubts, his thoughts, _everything_ , disappeared when Dean touched him.

He nearly buckled when Dean pressed his hips into him. Practically collapsed against the stall as their bodies fell flush together, back-to-chest. Dean’s lips grazed his ear, and the sudden rush of adrenaline made him woozy. Hands slid up his outer thighs and wrapped around to fondle his hard cock—hands that were strong and soft, treating him like fine, expensive china. He could get lost in those hands. He could get lost in _Dean_ , touching him like this. 

Castiel let out a noise. Dean responded by gripping his length and giving it a firm upward stroke, thumbing the wet head. He turned to butter in Dean’s hands and shuddered against him, slowly falling apart. Dean held him against his chest as if they'd been lovers for years. Tender. Inappropriate. A puff of warmth at his neck, whiskey dark, was his first warning. Then, there were full lips, sweet and gentle on his skin. Castiel closed his eyes and let himself indulge in its simplicity. His innocence. For a moment, he wanted this and only this—then, that moment was over.

With a growl, Castiel jerked his shoulder back. "Just fuck me, goddamnit." 

Dean’s arms dropped like lead. A chilly breath snaked along the back of his neck. With Dean no longer flush against him, Castiel was naked. Cold. Left needing him again. Instead of a gentle touch or a brush of soft fingers, Dean grabbed his left wrist and yanked it up. His silver-steel Rolex glinted in the bathroom’s light, brilliant and out of place. Dean shot out a sharp breath. There was judgment in it, as glacial as the bathroom had become.

“A Rolex?" Violence pinched his wrist. "You’re one of those rich fucks, aren’t you? Used to ordering people around and shitting on them because they’re not as good as you." Dean's lips brushed against his ear. "I bet you get off on it.” 

Dean tossed his hand away. There was a promise of heat when Dean leaned forward, bracketing his hands against the stall on either side of his head again. Castiel closed his eyes and sought his warmth. Arching his spine just enough to brush his naked ass against Dean's crotch. Something grumbled in Dean's chest—something between a growl and a groan. It sounded like thunder. It sounded like—

"Don't you." 

—punishment.

"Yes."

Dean huffed out an arctic blast against his neck. There was a dark energy inside Dean that he wanted. It promised pain and retribution. Right then, he wanted to be punished. For cheating his clients and lying to his employees. For insulting a homeless woman on the corner this morning and firing his receptionist—he didn't even remember her name—last week over nothing. Every time he fucked someone over, he’d felt a surge of excitement and he _liked_ it. 

Dean's lips brushed his ear again. "Tell me how much you want me to hurt you." 

Castiel pressed his face into the dirty stall. His whisper was like an aphrodisiac and he was high on it, arching his back again, offering up his ass as if he were a cat in heat. Dean exhaled hard through his nose, and it raced down his skin. The way he leaned into him a little more, his mouth so close, on the verge of either biting him or kissing him—Castiel knew Dean wanted him as much as he hated him.

"You want to punish me, don't you?"

_For being rich and successful, for shitting on people like you..._

"Yes."

"Punish me, then," Castiel whispered. "Make it hurt."

_Rip me apart._

Dean smiled like a blade against his ear. The pressure of Dean's weight was gone. Behind him, a litany of sounds: the crinkling of a condom's packaging, a belt buckle unfastened, jeans unzipped, clothes falling to the filthy floor. The packaging tore—

"No," Castiel snapped. "No condom."

"You got a death wish?"

"Do you have something that would kill me?"

"Other than my fucking dick?" Dean growled. “No. You?”

“No.”

The half-opened package fell discarded to the floor, like the last shreds of their sanity. 

Dean grabbed his hips and yanked back, pressing hot and hard against his ass. His fingers pinched and bruised, but Castiel didn’t care. Too caught up in the way Dean was teasing him, sliding his cock just over his hole and not shoving it in like he desperately wanted him to. It shred every last thread of his composure. The sound he made—a groan, a whimper, he didn’t know—broke pathetically. He needed him with everything he had left, but Dean wouldn’t give that to him. Dean was bent on punishing him with another sweep of his hot cock, burning a trail on his skin. Castiel trembled. Against his neck, Dean weathered a small noise, deep and beautiful. 

It was torture. Absolute fucking torture. The teasing, Dean’s lips brushing his ear—it drove him crazy. Castiel rocked his hips back, fluid and easy, catching the friction of Dean's cock. The head of him slipped inside so effortlessly it made Castiel gasp. Dean teased him like that, letting the crown of his cock breach his rim, nothing more, before pulling out. Again, sliding his length across his hole just to punish him. 

Castiel pressed his face against the dirty stall, each noise he made closer and closer to desperate. Bordering on pain because he was left without Dean inside him, fringing on hysteria because it felt _so fucking good_. And when Dean shoved inside him brutally, stretched him wide without so much as a warning—

He cried out. Not because of the pain, because there was none, or the discomfort of the stretch—he cried out because he was so incredibly _full_ , because every inch of Dean belonged inside of him. He was dazed, his head whirling with his adrenaline. Dean rocked his hips back, slowly pulling out to the head, then thrust forward with all his weight behind it. Castiel banged his head on the stall, groaning, panting heavily. The force of him, how it felt, _God_ , he was harder than he'd ever been, wet and dripping between his legs. Dean's groan disappeared with the bar's heavy-bass music. Another deep, hungry thrust like the first. A third. Slow and calculated, rough and just a shade painful. Castiel let out another whimper. Behind him, Dean gripped his hips hard. A reckoning was coming.

"You a whore for dick?" 

For a second, the question confused him. Didn't catch the meaning of it because he was too concerned with how far Dean had drawn back, only the head of his cock still inside him—as if he were was using it as a weapon. If he didn't answer the way Dean wanted him to, the way he needed him to, he was afraid Dean would leave him here, alone, naked. 

Castiel pushed back into him, using the stall for leverage. Inches of hot, thick cock slid into him again, and he groaned, his deep, needy noise both filthy and arousing. Dean thrust forward so hard, so savagely, that Castiel crashed into the stall. It hurt—and he _loved_ it.

"Answer me."

It dawned on him. He could only mean how easily Dean had slid into him, how loose he was. Abusing oneself on dildos every day for months did that: stretched tight muscles and trained them to accept a cock of any size. With Dean deep inside of him, stretching him, filling him up, Castiel barely had the mind to answer. Dean grabbed his hair and pulled. Hard. It was the thrill of being man-handled, abused, mistreated, that had him gasping. 

“Yes,” Castiel whispered, breathless. "I'm a fucking whore for dick."

There was a sudden change in the air. Charged with something... electric. Dangerous. Dean leaned forward, flush against his back, and Castiel trembled as his lips touched the shell of his ear again. “Gonna ruin you for anyone else, Lucas," Dean promised. "No one's gonna give it to you as good as me…"

Castiel groaned again. He believed him. Dean had already ruined him, claimed him with the very first thrust. He'd never be the same again after his beautiful stranger. Before Dean, he liked unattractive that was forgettable. Now, he'd always chase beautiful that would kill him.

He spread his thighs wider for him, angled his ass so Dean could take all of him, anything and everything he wanted. Dean pushed his head against the stall, pulled his left wrist behind his back and held it there—and pounded him until he couldn't see. Rapid, hard, unforgiving thrusts, over and over again. They ripped him apart from the inside out. Made him gasp and struggle for breath. It was exhilarating. The most pleasurable thing he'd ever experienced. 

Dean jack-hammered him with no mercy, plunging deeper and harder than anyone ever had. Like pliable dough, Dean stretched him and abused him, fucking him so hard he could feel it in his throat. Castiel panted, grimaced. Dean gripped his hair, fucked him harder, and bruised him. Under that sunny southern smile lived an animal as dark as sin, with a brand of dominance that'd shatter him for the rest of his life. It made his knees weak. _Dean_ made his knees weak.

"You know what's gonna happen?" Another hard, brutal thrust. "You're going to crave my dick after we're done."

Dean let his head and wrist go, grabbed both his hips—and fucked his ass raw. This was bliss; out of control and devastating, at the mercy of another man. Surrendering. The pleasure was unbearable, and he grabbed his limp cock, stroking it back to life with quick, rough fingers. Dean's thighs slapped against his. His own legs quaked. His stomach twisted. He could smell Dean's sweat, his arousal, and could hear him groan low and dark over the music. Castiel tightened his grip around his cock, jerking it hard enough to almost hurt... he couldn’t take much more of this… the hard fucking, the constant rubbing inside him… his own touch on his cock.

He lost it when Dean groaned, ragged and broken, and came over his fingers with an orgasm that almost killed him. For a moment, Castiel basked in his afterglow. Then, the world came into focus again. Dean’s come rolled down his inner thighs. The bar’s music rattled the walls. The stench of shit and piss stung his nose. Dean had already pulled out and was fumbling with his clothing. Castiel stood there, out of breath, physically satisfied, but—

Fingers sunk into his abused hole. Castiel jerked ram-rod straight with a gasp. He was turned and roughly pushed back into the stall before he could realize it. Green eyes glittered dark in the bathroom's shitty lighting. Then, Dean smiled. Not sunny-bright and disarming, but as lethal as a snake. Full of venom. Dean wiped his come on his Armani suit jacket out of spite, but didn't stop there. They were on his face then, his filthy fingers, marking him. Castiel opened his eyes to Dean’s hateful frown.

"Fuck you."

It was in Dean’s voice; the hatred he had for him. Poorer and with less privileges, Dean would probably slink back to the hole from which he’d come, no better than when he’d swaggered into _Edge_. The second Castiel pitied him was the second Dean flashed him a grin. A wink. Triumphant that he’d ruined him for anyone else just like he promised—and Dean was right. He was ruined, completely and utterly, and it made him angry, vengeful and destructive. 

Instinct took over. 

Castiel grabbed Dean's waist and pulled him in. He squeezed his ass over jeans—found his wallet in his back pocket and slipped it out. It earned him a forceful slam against the stall. Castiel feigned timid and turned his head away when Dean got in his face.

"You grab me again, and I'll break your fucking fingers. You hear me?"

Castiel nodded—while hiding the wallet behind his back. None of Dean's gentleness was there when he grabbed his chin, yanking it toward him. No southern gentleman in his eyes as Dean stared him down. Although his fingers squeezed and pinched, punishing him, there was beauty in that face. Kindness in his soul. Brutality belonged on him like the sun belonged in the night sky. 

Dean closed in on him. So close he thought he’d try to kiss him again. His breath whispered across his face, their lips almost touching. Breathing, any movement at all would—

“See you around, Lucas."

His words ghosted against his mouth. Dean let him go and left him in the stall without looking back. When the bathroom door slammed shut, Castiel closed his eyes and swallowed hard. His heart pounded in his chest. He recovered, opened the wallet and fumbled for Dean's license.

Dean Winchester  
14 Saint Marks PL #10D  
New York, New York 10003 

He smiled, licked his lips and tasted Dean Winchester on his tongue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm horrible at knowing what to tag for. If you feel there's a tag missing, please leave a comment with your thoughts. Thank you so much for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

Dean Winchester didn't live on 14 Saint Marks Place, apartment 10D according to its current tenant, Jo Harvelle. Said he'd been evicted several months back. No forwarding address. Castiel had reached a dead end.

The weekend marched by imperiously. Monday's clients came and went.

Castiel sat in his study, staring at the wallet on his desk. Leather. Tough and sturdy, worn and soft around the edges. It looked old as if it’d lived a hundred lives, but had a soul as young and lively as its owner— _current_ owner. He thumbed the J.W. engraved on the lower right corner. It must have belonged to someone else before Dean. A brother maybe. A father. Someone who loved him as much as Dean seemed to love the wallet.

He opened it like he'd done many times before. Took out each piece carefully and set them aside; credits cards in one pile, motorcycle’s insurance card and driver’s license in another. It was a delicate photograph he took out last. He unfolded it gingerly. Four faces smiled up at him. In the photo, Dean's young grin was the widest. Behind him stood a proud fatherly figure. Beside him a mischievous brother. Squeezing them altogether, with blonde hair haloed around her head, was Dean’s mother presumably—their anchor and glue. They were happy. It was a perfectly sunny day in the park. Hamburgers and hotdogs cooked on the grill in the background.

His beautiful stranger had a beautiful family—and he hated him for it. 

Hated him, too, because he couldn’t get him out of his head.

Castiel ran a fingertip over Dean's young face, then folded the photograph and set it aside in its own special place on his desk. He pulled back his sleeve to check the time—reminded again that his Rolex had gone missing. Searching the apartment, the car and his office at work had yielded nothing. A mystery for another day.

6:03 p.m. If he called now, he might still be there.

Castiel picked up the old-fashioned rotary phone and dialed. It rang two times and was picked up on the third.

"Castiel," greeted a charismatic voice.

He could hear it on the other end; a smile meant for political office. A smile that belonged on the face of a lethal Wall Street shark, not his dear friend—

"Bartholomew," Castiel said evenly. "You’re well, I assume.”

“As are you, I hope.” His smile blossomed. “It's always a pleasure to hear—“

“How are the children?" he cut in coldly. "And Margret? How is she?"

If his phone’s earpiece could emit frost, it surely would have.

"They're fine, Castiel. My wife and children are just fine," came the chilly reply.

"I need a favor," Castiel stated. "I need you to look up someone for me.” He spun the folded photograph under his finger. “I was the victim of a hit-and-run—"

"The Mercedes?" Bartholomew signed dramatically. "Was the damage extensive?"

"Enough to warrant my call, Bartholomew," he lied.

On the other end, there was tapping on a keyboard. A computer mouse clicked a couple of times. "What's the license plate number of the vehicle—"

"His name is Dean Winchester."

Silence unearthed his lies.

"If it was a hit-and-run—"

"Dean Winchester," Castiel said again.

"Please tell me you didn't obtain this... Dean Winchester's information... illegally."

"It won't be put to illegal use."

Bartholomew chuckled. "You'd make a fine politician. Ever consider running for office?"

"No."

"Shame." More mouse clicking. Then... "Dean Winchester. Born January 24th, 1979. Sound like your boy?"

Castiel checked the driver's license. January 24, 1979. 

"Yes." He needed an address. "Is there—"

"He has a record," Bartholomew announced. "Did you know that?"

"No."

More mouse clicking. "One count second degree robbery. Served two years as a juvenile." Venomous smile on the other end. "This doesn't seem like your... usual cup of tea."

He thinned his lips and tossed the license aside. On the other end, Bartholomew tapped on the keyboard, clicked the mouse, then said, "The whole family is corrupt."

"Is it?"

"They all have records. Your boy, the father. Even his brother," Bartholomew said. "As a friend, I'd say you should stay away from him, but I suppose you'll be wanting these records instead?"

"You know where to send them."

"You know the fee."

"You'll have the money within the next thirty minutes as per our agreement," Castiel said.

That seemed to please him. "It's been a long time since we caught up on a game of golf, Castiel. I can only assume your swing is still as brutal as your personality."

"We will soon."

They ended the call. Once he received the files, he printed and put them each in their own folder, spreading them over his desk like a deck of cards. John, Samuel, and Dean Winchester. His fingers itched to pull Dean’s first. He wanted to know what secrets he kept, his weaknesses—where to find him. But like a game, he wanted to resist. Save Dean’s file for last just to prove to himself he _could_.

He’d start with the patriarch, then. John Winchester. 

J.W.

He glanced at the leather wallet. Sentimental. Dean was sentimental. He smiled slightly, added the word to the list _all things Dean Winchester_ , and opened John’s file. Two counts criminal trespassing. One count first degree robbery. Sentenced five years in prison. Died in three.

The family photograph, the mug shot—they told different stories. A dead-eyed stare and haunted face had replaced his sunny grin. John no longer stood straight-backed and shoulder-proud next to his sons. He was hunched over, thin and sullen. Tragedy was written in the dark pockets under his eyes.

Castiel moved on.

Samuel Winchester. Reckless endangerment of property, driving while impaired by drugs, appearance in public under the influence of narcotics or a drug other than alcohol. Criminal possession of a controlled substance. Methamphetamine. The laundry list of offenses didn’t match the photograph’s sweet-faced boy. Sam was grinning ear-to-ear, hanging off his brother like a wet shirt. Youngest son with a bright future—found unconscious in a car. Near fatal overdose, according to the police report. That was three years ago.

He poured himself a dram of whiskey, sipping it, savoring it, while eyeing Dean’s file. Anticipation fluttered at his pulse point. His gut twisted. His mind… wandered. The way Dean held his face gently in his hands, tried to kiss him… the brutality Dean showed when he fucked him as hard as he did. Dean Winchester was coursing through his veins like an irresistible drug. Dean was dangerous. Deadly. 

An addiction that was spiraling out of control.

He grabbed the file and flipped it open. He knew the charges, the sentence, and would recognize his face in any mug shot. His eyes skipped to the end like they would on the last page of a book.

_14 Saint Marks Pl# 10D  
New York, NY 10003_

No other address listed.

He leaned back and dropped his head on three fingers. Dead end. There was only one other avenue—

Castiel picked up the phone again. This time, Bartholomew answered on the first ring as if he were expecting his call.

"I want to press charges... Yes, for the hit-and-run." Castiel switched the phone to the other ear. "No, not tomorrow. Find him tonight... Yes, I'm well aware of the cost for expedited service—no... _Yes_." He exhaled sharply. "I don't _care_. Make sure it happens within the next few hours."

He hung up the phone and waited.

:::

Within four hours, he received a call that they'd found him. They were holding Dean at police headquarters on charges that spanned from resisting arrest to assaulting an officer, others possibly pending. Castiel didn't waste any time. He got into his undamaged Mercedes and left immediately.

Minutes later, he strode through the doors. Police officers with cold eyes and even colder faces gave him blank stares. Gauging his threat. Waiting for him to make the wrong move, as if he were the same as every other criminal scuttling around New York City. Then they noticed him, really noticed him—his carriage, his suit, his obvious wealth—and their attitudes changed. Lukewarm nods and disarmed smiles followed him to security and beyond, to where he found Bartholomew in the heart of police headquarters, at the end of a two-officer escort. His old friend looked stately in his suit, as powerful as any police commissioner ought to be, and smiled, charismatic as always. Castiel knew him well enough to see the ice behind it.

Bartholomew held out his hand. "Mr. Sant'Angelo. What a pleasure it is to see you."

Castiel clasped his hand—and grunted as he was jerked in, close, tight, enough to feel the whip of his friend's whisper in his ear. "You're going to pay a hefty price for what that animal did to one of my officers."

The handshake tightened.

Castiel didn't care to look over his shoulder to find the officer in question. He could imagine what Dean's hands could do, had trembled under them just days ago, and could feel them still. Finger mark bruises shivered under his skin, and the sensation, the arousal of it, shortchanged his lungs of air. He blew out a hasty breath against Bartholomew's cheek. "Drop the charges. All of them."

"Are you—" Bartholomew let out a growl. "Was this one of your goddamn games?"

"We were under no illusion that it wasn't."

"You..." Bartholomew swallowed hard. "Do you know how much of my time you've wasted? How many city resources?"

"I got what I wanted."

"I could have you _arrested_ for interfering with police operations."

Castiel yanked Bartholomew closer, digging fingernails into his upper arm. Bartholomew grunted and his whole body went rigid, unyielding like a rod of steel. "You seem to have forgotten you're not the white knight you pretend to be—"

"Neither are you," Bartholomew growled.

Castiel smiled like a snake. "The soot on your armor is blacker than mine, my dear old friend, and we both know it. Need I remind you of your sins?" Bartholomew opened his mouth, and Castiel tightened the vice-like hold on his arm. He wasn't finished. "What would Margret think if she found out you pay for whores outside the sanctity of marriage? What of your children? The good people of New York City. What a _headline_ that would make, don't you think? 'New York City's Police Commissioner caught in flagrante—'"

"Enough," Bartholomew hissed.

Castiel leaned in, his whisper a razor blade. "Just remember. Your wife, your children, your job—your _entire life_ —could be gone in one fell swoop. Don't fuck with me."

Bartholomew cleared his throat, smiling and nodding to a police officer who happened by. "It's always good to see you, Mr. Sant'Angelo." It was a way of agreement. Bartholomew played his part well. He always had.

"I'm glad we understand each other."

Castiel let him go and they exchanged heated glares, stood there until the world around them reacted first. The hallway erupted with a familiar voice, a shout, and Castiel turned. Dean shrugged off one of the escorting officers. "Get your hands off me."

"Here's our golden boy now," Bartholomew said easily. "Feistier than your usual."

Dean stopped dead in his tracks when he saw him. His green eyes widened, then narrowed dangerously.

"I'll leave him to you," Bartholomew said, then leaned in, "Try not to break this one."

"The charges—"

"—will be dropped. I'll get my best officer on it."

The biting sarcasm in his voice, the stiff acidic way Bartholomew thundered toward his office. It told him he had gotten under his skin, had burrowed into a black, rotting wound... and won. 

Castiel turned away from Bartholomew's retreat, toward Dean, and smiled for more than one reason—and was greeted with a frown. Dean purposefully angled his back to him and leaned against the wall, next to a clerk's barred window. Giving him an opportunity to devour his body with his eyes. His dark jeans and T-shirt fit snuggly and left nothing to the imagination. It was a crime he hadn't seen him naked yet beyond the shitty, dim lighting in a piss-stained bathroom. A thought that left his skin itching and his body _wanting_.

Like a lost moon, Castiel gravitated toward Dean, edging closer toward being complete. Dean rumbled low to the clerk behind the window. She frowned, attitude warping her lips crooked, and crossed her arms over her chest. He was close enough now to hear the conversation—and almost touch him. 

"Identification, please."

"I said I don't have it," he heard Dean snap.

"And like _I_ said, I can't give you back your possessions without the proper identification."

"Come on, lady."

Castiel stepped in beside Dean at the clerk's window. Tension sucked life out of the air, and Dean stiffened, his entire body wound up tighter than a coiled snake. Even the clerk paused to take notice, her lips and face pinched tight, narrowed eyes shredding apart her new visitor. Her demeanor completely changed when Castiel pulled a wallet from his coat pocket and handed it to her. At first, she was confused, then when she opened it, saw it was Dean's, her eyes narrowed again. She gave Dean a look before writing down a few things in her report, stood up and turned away, disappearing back into the shelves of personal belongings. 

Dean's eyes crawled all over him.

"Well, isn't that convenient," Dean muttered dryly.

"I intended to return it to you tonight. A neighbor told me you'd been arrested, so I came here," he lied. Horribly.

"You were at my place?"

"How else would I return your wallet to you?"

Castiel slipped his gaze sidelong. Dean clenched his jaw as the clerk came back. "A neighbor, huh?"

"All right, sir... please confirm that these are, in fact, your possessions and were on you at the time of your arrest. I'll read them off one by one and hand them to you. Understand?"

"Yes, ma'am."

The clerk took the first item out. "One Trojan MAGNUM XL Lubricated Condom..."

Castiel slowly turned his head and gave him a pointed look. Dean definitely wasn't an extra large anything. 

Unable to look at him, Dean shifted his body weight, growing red under the collar. "I got this, Lucas."

He smirked and turned away, lazily walking far enough from the conversation to miss a good portion of it. Across the way, two police officers struggled to escort a pockmarked man to the doors, and a constant chatter of conversation, reprimands, and office white noise filled his ears. Between keeping his call girls polished and pretty, and the great city of New York unaware, Bartholomew commanded his ship in a way he could respect, to the tune of order, efficiency, and brutality.

"One Oyster Perpetual DateJust Rolex..."

He turned slowly. Dean shoved it in his pocket, along with everything else, signed the form, and turned away from the clerk's window. Castiel walked in-step with that cocky, bow-legged swagger as Dean headed toward the doors. 

"Well, isn't that convenient."

Dean smirked.

:::

The motorcycle had been impounded, leaving Dean without a vehicle. They argued for five minutes. Dean wanted to call a cab. Castiel wanted to take him home. In the end, Castiel won. He always did.

In the parking garage, his Mercedes flared to life with the push of a button. Dean stopped dead in his tracks and stared at it. The car's impossibly black shine, maybe, the way it purred gently in the parking garage. It was the epitome of grace on four wheels, start-of-the-art technology etched in its muscles. The engine alone—

"Nice parking job," Dean said dryly.

Castiel frowned. The pitch-black beast took up two spaces, parked over the middle line; the way he'd always parked it for as long as he could remember. "I don't want it getting scratched," Castiel said with a shrug.

Dean rolled his eyes.

He considered Dean for a moment and was consumed with the urge to fuck the disrespect out of him. Right here, on the hood of his car, forcing him to appreciate it, its power— _him_ —and wipe that fucking smirk off his lips. Instead, Castiel opened the driver side door and got inside, while Dean opened his door and simply... stood there. Not making any movement to sit in the very expensive, Nappa leather seats.

"Is there a problem?"

Dean mumbled something to himself, got in and closed the door, taking in the panorama roof, the LED interior lighting, and the high-resolution gauge display screens. Dean huffed out a laugh through his nose and ran a hand over the dashboard as gently as he would a lover. His expression should have been a pleased one. It wasn't.

"Apparently, I did a hit-and-run on one of these before I punched that officer..." Dean looked at him. Castiel stared back. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

"About the assault?"

"The hit-and-run," Dean said flatly.

"Dean..." Castiel looked out over the near-full garage. Gesturing. "There are plenty of Mercedes in New York City. I can't possibly own the only one. Certainly not the one you allegedly hit."

Dean clenched his jaw, studying him. "Yeah, you know what? You're probably right. Probably just some... _really_ fucked up coincidence."

"Glad you agree," Castiel said with a smile.

They sat in silence, stuck in a stalemate of stubbornness and will. Somewhere, several floors up, a car alarm went off, and New York City's music—horns, yelling, _traffic_ —became a muddled memory, caught up in a more incessant, demanding beat. The car alarm shut off after three, five, six blares, leaving them alone with the gentle rumble of his Mercedes... and Dean's impatience.

"We going or what?"

"Your address." He pointed to the navigation screen.

Dean narrowed his eyes. "I thought you just came from there."

"Humor me."

Dean let out a steady breath and watched him as if he were a lethal spider. When Castiel didn't react in any way, save the thread of a smile, Dean clenched his jaw, leaned forward, and typed in his address. 124 Madison Street. Automatically saved to the navigation's computer memory. Just the way he wanted it. 

They wove through the streets in the comfort of luxury. The sound of classical violin curled around the sultry heat inside, while outside, New York City fought the first bite of winter. Streetlights sped by beyond tinted windows, and Dean's silence matched the blackness of the night's sky. His mood was decidedly impenetrable.

Without looking at him, Castiel extended an open hand. The Nappa leather seats whispered when Dean shifted, and the warmth of his Rolex pooled in his palm. Their fingers touched for a millisecond, and the sudden weight of his hard dick made him miss a stop sign. He ignored the horn blaring behind them, clipped on his watch, and flicked a glance to Dean. All stern angles and a deep frown. Still beautiful.

"Why did you steal my Rolex?"

"Why did you steal my wallet?"

"You dropped it."

"So did you," Dean countered easily.

Castiel smiled. Lie. The bathroom stall, Dean fucking him with his arm behind his back—he took it then. The only time he could have.

"Were you planning on selling it?"

"Not that kinda guy."

"Then what—"

"Look, I would've returned it eventually, all right?" Dean snapped.

"How?"

Dean shrugged. "Kinda figured not many high-rollers had the initials CLS around here. I would've found you... probably."

"You couldn't have known about the initials at the time you stole it."

"Found it," Dean corrected.

"Found it... how did you expect—"

"Wasn't thinking that far ahead, Lucas... if that's even your real name."

_Prepare to take a left_.

"So, you would've found me... eventually."

"Yep."

Castiel smiled to himself. Dean would've sought him out. He just happened to do it first—with a little help from the New York City Police Department.

_Your destination is on the right_.

He parked in front of—a restaurant with dark, brooding windows on an even darker street. _Tran's_ was printed under a language he didn't know—Chinese? Korean?—and looked worse for wear. The entire place did, located on the outskirts of Chinatown next to a gated lot that was for sale. Beyond that, there was a VIP Supply company and an alley too narrow for cars. Traffic raced overhead on an overpass—no, it was the Manhattan Bridge.

"So... you came _here_ , to _this_ address." Dean looked at him expectantly. "Which neighbor did you talk to?"

There were no neighbors. No one at all.

"I don't recall," Castiel lied.

"Right."

Castiel grabbed Dean's arm before he could open the door. "The other night..."

Dean cut him a cold glare. "Look, let's cut the bullshit, all right? You wanna fuck? Just say so."

His gut twisted. Castiel opened his mouth—

"Get out of the car."

Castiel whipped the door open and slammed it shut, clicking a button to lock the car behind him. Dean led him past VIP Supply and into the narrow alleyway. The smell of car exhaust overhead, piss, and trash bit at his nose, and from what little he could see, graffiti bruised bricks and chain-link fence alike. There was barely any lighting here, and an unsettling darkness crowded him. 

If he was going to be mugged, this was where it would happen. A place like this.

"Dean."

"Get on your knees," Dean said, unbuckling his belt. When Castiel hesitated— " _Now_."

One of the floodlights kicked on, sputtering on-off-on again like his heart. In that light, he saw how hard Dean was, thick and heavy in his palm. Castiel fell to his knees as if he'd been struck to suddenly worship. Smiling, Dean spit on his hand and began to stroke himself. Long and slow. Easy, like he was putting on a fucking show. 

"I'm going to make you beg for my dick, you hear me?"

It was agonizing, watching him, doing nothing while Dean teased the head of his cock with his fingers. Castiel thought to resist, refusing to let him win, but when Dean let out a soft noise, when Dean bit his lower lip, so fucking blissed out, Castiel lost it. He lunged forward, but somehow Dean was able-minded enough to react. The hard shove had Castiel sprawling back on his ass. In the murky glow, Dean gave him a smile, smug as if Dean had him right where he wanted him. And didn't he? Castiel brought himself to his knees again, like a dog waiting for scraps, and licked his lips as Dean continued to jack off in front of him. The crown of his cock bulged between the tight 'o' of his fingers, wet for him, reddish-purple with abuse. Castiel let out a chilly huff. He'd never admit to himself that he had whimpered too.

Dean must have heard it because his smile widened. His eyes were blown black and glassy in the shitty light, his cheeks and nose nipped by the chill, ruddy with the way he continuously teased himself. Several fast strokes just to get him to the edge, only to back off, almost stop completely, with a torturous long pull. By now, Castiel was too caught up in it to care that he'd started panting, that he was so hard in his own slacks it was _painful_ not to touch.

Dean smoothed a hand over his cock, root to tip. A slow, deliberate motion that drove him absolutely fucking crazy. With that same smile on his face, Dean angled his eyes down at him. "You want this dick, huh?"

"Yes," Castiel said breathlessly. He almost passed out from the adrenaline rush.

"You want it real bad, don't you?" Dean bit his bottom lip again. " _God_.. I don't know if I can last long enough—"

"Dean," he growled. Desperate, Castiel lunged for him again. Winced when Dean caught him before he could even come close. Fingers twisted in his hair and hurt, but that didn't matter. Not when Dean's cock was _right there_ , barely an inch from his face. The smell of Dean's sweat hit him first and made him dizzy, more intoxicating than drugs or wine combined. The heat of his body, this... disturbing _need_ for him...

" _Please_."

"What was that?" Dean prompted. His fingers loosened in his hair, not hurting quite as much. A reward, maybe, for being good. "I didn't hear you."

Castiel swallowed hard and stared at his hard cock. Precome pearled at the tip. If he could just... _taste him_. 

Before he could stop himself, he lapped at the air. The tip of his tongue slipped across the head of Dean's cock, and Dean jerked above him, swearing under his breath. The grip tightened again and twisted, and Castiel hissed out in pain, but didn't stop. His tongue caught Dean unaware again, blazing heat leaving a trail in his mouth where they had connected. Salt and bitter clung to the inside of his throat, making him hungry for more.

"Dean..." Sharp fingers angled his head up. Castiel stared into his eyes and read what Dean needed in the lust he found there. He'd decided it right then: he'd sell his soul to the devil.

"I want to suck your cock." He swallowed. " _Please_."

"Yeah? You gonna make me feel good, Lucas?"

"God, _yes_." 

Dean smiled a terrible smile and hinged his mouth open with a thumb. Obediently, Castiel went slack—and that's when Dean speared him without so much as a warning. "I hope you choke on it."

The head of his cock slammed into the back of his throat, and he gagged on it. Instinct told him to pull away, but he didn't, and latched onto Dean's hips instead. He let cold air in through his nose slow and easy and recovered, angling his neck back enough to suck cock properly. He sucked at the crown eagerly, wasn't ready for how Dean's gutteral groan made him feel. It shook him to his core, and his balls began to ache with it. Castiel wanted to tease him, lick at the tip, not once taking him all the way in, just so he could have some sort of control. So he could _win_. But impatience won over, and Castiel sucked him down to the root, slipping Dean's dick in and out of his mouth at an easy, manageable rhythm. Dean rewarded him with another one of those toe-curling noises. It was encouragement. So was the gentle kneading at his scalp.

Dean's fingers massaged and lightly pulled at his hair. Castiel _needed_ to give Dean the best blowjob he'd ever had, just so Dean wouldn't forget him. Revenge for the hours he'd thought about Dean, those hands, that body, the quiet violence that snaked just beneath his skin. 

It was that need that had him gagging on cock again, too eager that he'd become sloppy, hurried, a whore for sucking him off. He maneuvered and angled, drawing Dean's dick in, sucking him down with tight lips. He hollowed out his cheeks for harder, bobbed steady and controlled for quicker. Above him, Dean called out sharply and bucked his hips. The sounds Dean made... they were heavy and beautiful, more alive here in this enclosed space than he'd ever heard them back in that shitty bar bathroom. He wanted more of those sounds. Every single one.

Castiel snaked his hands around his hips, grabbed a hold of his ass and squeezed. In the roughness of their sex, Dean softly scratched the back of his neck, and Castiel savored every little reward in those gentle touches. Eagerness drove him to shift his angle again, and Dean's cock slid against the roof of his mouth, to his soft palate—

"Holy... _fuck_."

He hummed around Dean's length, pleased, and jerked Dean's hips toward him, over and over again, his cock quick and rough in his mouth. Dean gripped his hair hard, both hands, pulled it a little, and fucked his mouth until he could hardly breathe. He slackened his jaw and let Dean take him completely, as much as he wanted, as hard, as rough as he needed. Tears stung his eyes with how brutally Dean began to thrust. Saliva dripped out of the corners of his mouth. His heart sped up. For a second, he wanted to stop this, give himself a moment to gather his composure—and dignity. But with Dean abusing him like this, rough, degrading him like he was... 

Castiel needed release. He pressed a palm into his needy cock—

Dean pulled his hair, yanking his head at an uncomfortable angle. "Don't you fucking dare."

Like a dog, he licked at the head of Dean's cock in apology, gravitating toward it as if he couldn't help himself. Dean let him as soon as he stopped touching himself, when he was left hard and aching in his slacks. When Dean's cock slipped back into his mouth, where it belonged, he sucked harder than he did before just to placate him, apologize, whatever he had to do to make Dean happy. He knew he'd done right when the gentle touch returned, when Dean rubbed the back of his head. Southern gentleness again, not the harsh bite of the city. 

Castiel slid his hands along Dean's quaking thighs, to his hips and down again. Worshipping him, turning to a slave for him. Dean groaned in the back of his throat, his cock throbbed in his mouth—then exploded with his orgasm. Come oozed from his lips and dribbled down his chin. In that moment, he thought he'd spit it out. He removed himself from Dean, turned his head—

Cruel fingertips grabbed his chin and yanked his head up.

"Swallow."

He did, come salty and hot down his throat, as bitter as Dean's glare. In the hollow light, Dean smiled. It was smug again, triumphant, boasting his win. Dean patted his face condescendingly, zipped up, then did something Castiel didn't expect. He pushed him down. Hard, with a viciousness that sent a tremor of fear through him—and made him so fucking aroused he thought he'd explode.

"I better not see your fucking face again. You hear me?"

Then, just like that, as abrupt as a heart attack, Dean walked away, leaving him behind in the alleyway. Dirty. Abandoned.

Harder than he'd ever been.

Castiel shuffled back and leaned against the fence, shoving his hand into his pants. He grabbed his cock and pulled at it, stroking it so hard, so desperately it stole his breath away. Dean's dominance, the way he'd treated him like shit, fucking his mouth as if it were just as good as any other hole...

He choked back a gasp as his orgasm struck him, as he spilled out over his fingers and into his slacks. In the cold night air of New York City, he followed his heart on a downward spiral, back to calm and peaceful. Back to clarity. Reality.

And that was when the shame set in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm horrible at knowing what to tag for. If you feel there's a tag missing, please leave a comment with your thoughts. Thank you so much for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

For one week, he spent his nights tossing and turning; long mornings and afternoons consumed with images of Dean fucking him, buried so deep he thought he might burst. While New York City hummed beyond his floor-to-ceiling windows, he traced bruises on his skin, thinking about him, what they'd done, and what he swore they'd never do again.

That next week, he cut short client meetings and conferences to jack off in his office's private bathroom. Sweat dripped from his forehead as he called out for Dean. The thrill of his name on his lips set him free. The shame tortured him until he couldn't breathe. 

On Friday, just before the city came alive, he climbed into his Mercedes' smooth Nappa leather seats and drove to the edge of China town. _Tran's_ stared back at him as he sat idle in front of the dilapidated restaurant, wondering what secrets the black-faced windows hid inside. When the sun set, he fled to the clean, imposing walls of his home in Upper East Side and faced his humiliation. Alone.

It took him three weeks to cleanse himself of Dean Winchester. 

He turned toward another vice for comfort. His ultimate drug. 

Work.

Jersey City's skyline stretched lazily beyond the boardroom's massive windows, its buildings dwarfed by the oppressive Goldman Sachs Tower and all its glory. He leaned back in his chair and took it all in while, seated beside him, Gabriel schmoozed his way through another client meeting, all razzle-dazzle and charm. They were still in the beginning stages of the Draper-Larkin acquisition and their client, Adock Pharmaceuticals, proved to be impatient, aggressive, and incredibly foolish.

"I say we act as soon as possible," his client said.

Castiel took in a deep breath of stale air, the stench of a hostile takeover unmistakable.

"Let's not be too hasty, gentleman. The day is young, and we're not growing any older or poorer," Gabriel oozed. The men in the room chuckled. The tension lifted.

He tore his gaze away from the windows. Numerous eyes, even-lipped smiles, and imperious faces were locked onto Gabriel... except one. Though plain, he had an alarming look of innocence about him, a youthful face that didn't belong in a cold, unfeeling boardroom, but somewhere... more wholesome. Less deceitful. The boy reminded him of an usher he'd become infatuated with as a preteen, blue eyes wide and pure, brown hair soft across his forehead. Kissing him in the confessional, hands touching where they shouldn't have, he'd discovered he liked boys, and the memory alone sparked a note of arousal. 

As if he knew, the young man looked at Gabriel hastily, pretending he'd been paying attention all along. Pretending he _hadn't_ been staring at him the entire time. His nose crinkled, and the freckles there danced, blending in with the red flush that swept across his cheeks. There was something about him that he found... endearing. His uncertainty, maybe. How effortless it would be to break him. 

The boy chanced another look. This time, Castiel met his eyes, then, for no particular reason, he smiled. The reaction was that of a high school freshman; the young man blushed, dropped his eyes, and couldn't help but let a smile burst brilliantly across his face. On any given day, Castiel would take a man like him, client or not, and mercilessly fuck him, not a single hesitation given to throwing him out with tomorrow's trash. 

He checked his Rolex. 2:55 p.m. Gabriel had five more minutes. Still early enough in the day to invite his blushing prospect to a private, one-on-one meeting. Location: under his desk.

Castiel leaned back in the conference chair as Gabriel wound down, no less brilliant than he was at the beginning of what would've been a rather strained meeting. As his clients imagined dollar signs, Castiel let his mind wander elsewhere... to the young man knelt between his thighs, his pretty lips stretched tight around his cock. He sucked him down eagerly as if it were the only way he'd get that next promotion. Blue eyes looked up at him like he was a god, and Castiel pinched himself to ward off the heat growing in his pants. The image disappeared, and the boy at the end of the conference table returned to immaculate innocence. 

"And that, my good sirs, is how we do business," Gabriel concluded.

Meeting adjourned.

Both Gabriel and Castiel met their clients at the front of the room, shaking hands and smiling like sharks in blood-infested waters. Gabriel left, arm over shoulder with their client's CEO, Michael, while Castiel lingered behind. The boy pulled up the end of the line and grasped his hand. The grip was gentle, loose. Reverent.

"Mr. Sant'Angelo," he whispered.

Their contact was electric.

"My apologies. I didn't catch your name."

"Alfie, er, Alfred. My co-workers and friends—they call me Alfie."

Castiel opened his mouth.

"Sir!" His assistant busted in, red hair in a frazzled bun atop her head. She adjusted her glasses. "There's someone here for you. He insisted he see you without an appointment. I tried telling him—"

He raised a hand to quiet her. "Tell this... _whoever_ I'm busy."

Castiel turned back to Alfie, but his assistant moved into his line of sight. 

"I did, sir. He won't leave."

"Then call security."

"He said you'd say that," she blurted. "He told me to tell you that you have a mutual friend named Lucas, and—"

Castiel dropped Alfie's hand and turned, stomping out of the conference room. His mind whirled with all things Dean Winchester, the only one he'd ever given that name to. He was here. Dean Winchester was at his workplace, peacocking around his private office, three weeks after their last encounter. Just as he'd finally rid himself of the last glimmer of his addiction. 

Employees ducked aside, pressing themselves into walls and cubicles as he stormed by. He whipped open the door to the executive wing and thundered down the hall to the far end. When he rounded the corner—

Dean stood there, back to him, staring at a painting with his hands behind his back like a little boy. As if he could sense him, Dean turned his head slowly, giving him a glance over his shoulder. That simple look disarmed most of his anger. Then a shit-eating grin erupted across his lips, and Castiel scowled. 

What the fuck was he doing here? It was a question that never found its answer before his assistant came huffing and puffing around the corner. She bumbled about ungracefully on her pink high-heels and muttered her apologies. Dean gave her a wink. Castiel had an urge to fire yet another assistant.

"I'm so sorry, sir, but your appointment today at—"

"Move it," Castiel stated evenly.

Dean beamed him a fuck-you smile that was both sexy and entirely insulting. Then, he held out his hand as if this were a normal, run-of-the-mill business meeting. Castiel stared at the hand, then looked at him. Really looked at him. The suit he wore was ill-fitting, the sleeves too short, the pants and suit jacket too small. Tattoos peeked out at his wrists and, because his shirt was inappropriately unbuttoned, across his collarbone. No tie. His cowboy boots hideously out of place. Dean Winchester was here, at his office. _Hideously out of place_.

Castiel let a smile slide across his face. "Mr. Winchester."

"Mr. Sant'Angelo."

His real name snapped at him like a bullwhip as they clasped hands. The grip on each other's fingers painfully tight. Dean had a certain sparkle in his eyes. It said _I got you_ in a horrible way, as if he were a bomb about to go off. If Dean was here, at his workplace, at his office as he was now, Dean knew who he was. Fictitious Lucas drew his last breath, and Castiel Sant'Angelo stood in his place. 

He snatched his hand away.

"Coffee, Mr. Winchester?"

"No thanks, doll," Dean said, giving her a sweet, southern smile.

He'd place a job ad for a new assistant. _Today_.

"No calls, Miss..." He'd forgotten her name again, and waved a dismissive hand, leading the way to his office.

"Not nice forgetting a lady's name," Dean drawled behind him. His breath tickled the back of his neck and sent a shiver down his spine. "Anna, by the way. Birthday's tomorrow if you want to get her something pretty."

"She won't be here tomorrow."

"What? Why?"

Castiel slammed the office door shut and whirled on him, quick in backing Dean into a corner. Dean grunted as he bumped into the wall and put up his hands in surrender. The bastard smiled wide and charmed as if he were facing a little boy with a toy gun. 

How completely and utterly enraging.

"What the _fuck_ are you doing here?"

"Good to see you too, buttercup," Dean said, smooth and easy. "Missed you."

"Answer me."

"I need your help."

That sent Castiel back on his heels. He took a step back, lack of personal space no longer a distraction, and regarded him evenly. Slowly but surely, Dean's face fell. That southern charm and devil-may-care attitude dissipated before his eyes. There was a seriousness about him. A specific gravity about his visit. Castiel dropped his eyes to Dean's lips. Full and beautiful, in a tight line meant for business.

"Can we..." Dean tilted his head toward the desk.

Castiel straightened his Armani suit jacket. With another hand motion, they seated themselves. Dean unbuttoned his suit jacket and leaned back in his chair, crossing a calf over his other knee only to shift a second later. It took Dean two more tries to get somewhat comfortable. Once he did, Dean didn't make eye contact. His confidence was fucked. Castiel had the upper hand.

He smiled like the devil.

"What can I do for you, Dean?"

Dean bounced his knee, clenched his jaw, and finally looked at him. Their eyes met, but not for long. Dean stared at his desk, then leaned forward to grab his name plate. He fiddled with it in his hands. Nervous. Always beautiful.

"Guess your name isn't Lucas," Dean began, looking at him. Castiel thinned his lips, and Dean turned the name plate over several times. "Castiel Sant'Angelo, CEO of Goldman Sachs." Dean blew out a breath and tossed the name plate on the desk. It clattered hollowly. "Shit, if I'd known I was pounding expensive ass—"

"You would've taken more than just my Rolex."

"Found it," Dean corrected. "And fuck you, I ain't that kinda guy."

Castiel smirked.

"No, I would've wined and dined—"

"I hardly think McDonald's has wine," he cut in. 

"You sure have a mouth on you when you aren't choking on my dick."

Their easy banter was oddly comforting. Castiel cracked a small smile. "What can I do for you, Dean?"

Dean let his face tighten up again. He leaned forward, elbows to knees, and wrung his hands, opening and closing his mouth several times in false starts. Castiel sat there, patient, and studied him. Whatever this was, it was important. He could crush Dean's life by saying no, and having that kind of power over him... Castiel closed his eyes and held his breath.

"Look, man. I wouldn't even be here if I had anyone else to turn to."

He opened them. Dean was sitting there, spine bowed and head low. He was inspecting his fingernails, then started spinning the silver ring on his right ring finger. Still not looking at him. Doing everything else to avoid eye contact. What could Dean Winchester need that was so important to him?

Castiel nodded to no one and folded his hands over his lap. "You need money, don't you?"

Dean whipped his head up. He didn't need to answer at all. The need was in his eyes. As if he were ashamed, Dean looked at the floor and blew out a heavy breath. "Yeah, but not for the reason you think." 

"Then—"

Dean met his eyes. "Look, for the record, I'm not on drugs or anything, if that's what you're thinking. No gambling debts either, and I got no one chasing me, expecting me to pay them back, all right? We clear?"

Castiel nodded. "Crystal."

Satisfied, Dean nodded too, eye contact lost again. He licked his lips, then drew in a breath and let it out slowly. "It's for my brother. Just... all you need to know is..." Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. "My brother... Sammy... he's gotta go into rehab, man, and I don't have the money for it. No banks will give me a loan, and I've got no one that has any money I can borrow. You're kinda the only one I got left."

Castiel pressed an index finger into his cheek, middle finger draped across his upper lip. When he didn't respond, Dean looked up and searched his face, his eyes. Hopeful for a minute before the continued silence snatched it from his face. Another minute ticked by, and Dean's expression grew tighter, darker, until he frowned.

"Say something."

"I don't know what to say, Dean."

"Say you'll do it, goddamnit."

Castiel huffed out a mirthless laugh. "It's not that simple."

"Why the fuck not?"

"Bottom line: what's in it for me?" When Dean flinched— "You've come to me with a proposition that's all risk and no reward. In the financial world, this isn't a viable deal."

"Would you put aside your fucking financial mumbo-jumbo bullshit for a second? This isn't about a corporation, or 'viable deals' or a small business taking over another one, or whatever the fuck it is you do here, _Cas_. This is about another human being—"

"Who isn't my problem."

Dean sat upright, rigid as a New York City skyscraper. He narrowed his eyes dangerously. His Adam's Apple bobbed harshly in his throat. The deeper coloring of his skin, his fingers tight, his jaw line tighter... Dean Winchester was about to become a serious problem.

Castiel lay his hand flat on his desk, inches from the phone. A single call would take Dean out of here, effectively wiping him and his money problems out of his life. He knew he should've called security then and there and gotten rid of the complication, but he stalled. He studied Dean closely. This time, Dean wouldn't tear his eyes away from him. The eye contact threatened to undo him.

"Work with me," Dean whispered. "Please."

Mercy was a horrible weakness.

Castiel put his hand back in his lap and looked at him evenly. "I'm not a charitable man."

"Yeah, no, I get that."

"My employees, who toil hours to make this company the best, get towels for Christmas," Castiel stated. "So, why on earth would I help the likes of you... for nothing?"

Dean frowned. "Because you owe me."

Castiel choked out a laugh. " _I_ owe _you_? How?"

"That hit-and-run bullshit? You could've gotten me into some real deep trouble. So, yeah, I figure you owe me a little something."

"Dean," Castiel began, his tone condescending. "You can't honestly think I was behind that. My Mercedes—"

"Yeah, not a scratch on it, I know. My motorcycle is in perfect fucking condition too, but that didn't stop that officer from accusing me of wrecking a S550 black Mercedes... which you own, by the way."

Castiel shrugged. "Coincidence."

"Except you showed up at the station that very same night," Dean snapped. "What? You have some hot shit on some suit over there and called in a favor? Is that what happened? Because you sure as hell didn't find out I'd been arrested from any neighbor at an apartment I hadn't lived in for _months_. And you sure as fuck weren't at _Tran's_ where all this bullshit _actually_ went down." Dean crossed his arms over his chest. "How'd you do it, Cas? You have your buddy put out an APB on me and my motorcycle? Made up some bullshit story so they'd bring me in?"

"What's your point, Dean?"

"You want something I got. Don't know what it is, but it's all I've got to go on."

"If that were true, if you possibly had something I wanted—" His dick. "I would've sought you out after the... incident. I haven't."

"Except for the Friday before last, where you sat idle in front of _Tran's_ for three fucking hours."

Castiel kept his smile cool and easy. "Dean, let's be realistic. You're desperately searching for a reason why I should help you. It's not working."

Dean tightened his jaw and nodded, looking down to the floor. After a moment, he slapped his thighs and said, "Well, I gave it a shot. Thanks for your time, Cas." He stood up and took a step toward the door.

"What about your brother?"

"Don't you worry about Sammy. I'll figure it out. I always do," he said, reaching for the door.

"Sit down, Dean."

Dean froze, then looked over his shoulder. It took him more than enough time to resume his position in the chair in front of his desk. Understandably wary, looking at him as if he were about to serve him for lunch. Dean fought for comfort again, fidgeting until finding a spot that suited him. They didn't talk. Just sized each other up.

"You got a brother?" Dean asked finally.

_Once_. Castiel didn't respond.

"Well, I'd do anything for mine. He's the only family I got left," Dean said somberly. "So, if you're gonna help me, I've got nothing to give... unless you want me to fuck my way out of debt." 

Dean chuckled at the joke. Castiel didn't.

The sudden tension in the air suffocated the room. Dean stared hard while Castiel remained motionless, expressionless. Wanting so very desperately for Dean to agree. The proposed arrangement rolled around in Dean's head, he could see it on his face, and Dean tightened his jaw, looked away for a while, then back again. Considering. Weighing the options, his own risks and rewards. Which was more important? His brother or himself?

"Sammy's treatment would be ninety days—" _His brother_. "You gonna be able to handle my dick for that long?"

_God, yes_. "I'm sure I'll manage."

"You better not be some kinky fuck."

"Does it matter?" When Dean said nothing, Castiel added, "My terms. No questions. Understood?"

"Can't believe I'm agreeing to this shit," Dean grumbled.

"Don't worry, Dean," Castiel said, leaning back comfortably in his chair. "I'll see to it your brother gets the utmost care in one of the best facilities New York City has to offer."

"Not worried about Sammy," Dean returned coolly. "Just worried how chaffed your ass is gonna be when I'm done with it."

Castiel smirked and picked up the phone. "Cancel my appointments for the rest of the afternoon. I am not to be disturbed under any circumstances. Is that understood?" His assistant— _Anna_ —mumbled a demure, "Yes, sir," from the other end. He hung up the phone and looked at Dean. "I want you to fuck me over my desk."

"What? Now?" Dean asked incredulously.

"Is that a problem?"

"Much as I hate it admit it, I don't have a magic dick," Dean growled. "Kinda not in the mood."

"I see," Castiel said, hands over his lap again. "I suppose 'Sammy' will understand that his older brother failed him when he needed him most."

Dean turned his head to one side, then slipped him a sidelong glance that could cut steel. He lifted a finger. If Dean could've killed him with it, he would have. "Don't you... fucking dare call him Sammy again, you hear me?"

Castiel smiled coldly.

Dean regarded him evenly, then huffed out a laugh. "That's how this is gonna go, huh?"

Castiel didn't respond. He sat there, smug and completely in control. It only seemed to add to Dean's annoyance.

"You wanna be fucked?" The question was dangerous. Erotic. " _Fine_. We'll fuck."

Castiel reflexively swallowed, his throat dry and scratchy like sandpaper. When Dean stood up, devouring him like he was hungry, Castiel lost his breath. Something had changed in Dean. He wasn't a man in desperate need, but a man in charge, a man not to be fucked with. It was in his eyes, a flicker of anger sharp and hot, and Castiel wanted that. He wanted Dean to use it, take it out on him, and abuse him. Dean narrowed his eyes like he could smell it on him. Castiel grew hot and heavy in his Armani slacks.

Dean's swagger around the desk was agonizingly slow, giving him a chance to take him all in. He started at his thighs, tight in slacks one size too small, and traced his inseam to the obvious bulge between his legs. Castiel bit his lower lip. Images of that night in the alley weeks ago pooled at the base of his spine. If he had to do it all over again, he'd worship at the same altar, sucking Dean's dick just like he had then. As if remembering his taste, his mouth salivated, and Castiel swallowed again, pretending he was unfazed by all of this. He kept his expression bored while, inside, his guts twisted with need. His pulse didn't thump like drums in his throat. He wasn't sweating or harder than he'd been since that night in the alley.

And Dean certainly wasn't sexy.

Dean stopped catty-corner from him, leaning a hip against his desk. Castiel held his breath and watched him. With those eyes locked on his, intense and beautiful, Dean unbuttoned and removed his jacket. He flung it carelessly to the chair he'd been sitting in, and him standing there, tall and commanding, stark white shirt inappropriately unbuttoned, shouldn't have been so goddamn arousing. Dean unbuttoning his shirt sleeve and slowly rolling it up to his elbow shouldn't have made him tremble. But it did.

He rolled up his other sleeve, then lay his hands flat on the desk. Castiel couldn't swallow around the lump in his throat, and when Dean leaned close, green eyes blown wide with sex, he nearly lost it.

"You sure you're ready for this?"

Castiel didn't answer for a good five seconds, afraid his voice would crack, then coolly said, "Impress me."

Dean smiled like a snake, then struck. 

He hadn't expected Dean to move so fucking quickly. 

Before he could react, Dean had him by the scruff of his neck, slamming his head down on the desk with that anger he so desperately wanted Dean to use. That anger would manifest in a bruise later, and he'd have to answer questions that were no one's fucking business but his own. Thoughts of the excuses he'd make disappeared. Dean pushed close, flush against his back, and whispered, "Get up."

His breath tickled the shell of his ear. Castiel shivered and did what he was told, lifting his ass off the chair while Dean held him down by his neck. The closeness was excruciating. The not fucking even worse. And when Dean nuzzled the hollow space just below his earlobe— "Fuck."

Dean smiled against his skin and brushed his lips along the side of his neck. Castiel let out a breath, and it ghosted the desk's polished cherry finish. A chuckle vibrated next to his ear and, instead of just brushing his lips again, Dean planted a kiss on his jaw line. Gentle and sweet.

Like a wild horse, Castiel bucked. Dean gripped him tighter, pushing down, and kept him still. His fingers bit into his skin, and he liked it. He didn't want gentle. He wanted pain. He wanted hard. He wanted _rough_.

Dean obliged.

He pulled him up by his hair, and it made him growl. Punishment was in the way Dean yanked a little harder, the angle on his neck strained and painful. Lips grazed his ear, and his dick jerked in excitement. "Drop your pants."

Castiel couldn't get them down quick enough. His fingers were impatient and clumsy, the simplicity of dropping his pants and underwear a Herculean task. With his ass bare to the Jersey City Skyline, Dean took his time positioning himself behind him and, once he did, took even longer to touch him. He lay the flat of his palm on one cheek, smoothing his fingers over soft skin. Then he cupped and squeezed, kneading the muscle, firm and possessive.

"You let anyone have you since me?"

"No."

The word was breathless.

"Yeah? Isn't that sweet." He sounded _amused_. "Hell, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you're kind of hung up on me, Cas."

"Don't be stupid," Castiel said, cutting. "I barely remember you."

Dean barked out a laugh. "Anyone tell you you're a horrible fucking liar?" Castiel opened his mouth, and Dean jerked his head again, body low and flush against his back, lips against his ear. "You're a horrible fucking liar."

Castiel arched his back into him, he couldn't help it. He needed to feel Dean all over him, pressing him hard against the desk with his dick filling him up. Dean's erection blazed against his ass, and it was its heat, Dean kissing the knot of his spine, that sent him into a goddamn frenzy. He sent his hips back against Dean's, seeking friction, _anything_ , to sate the growing need in his balls. Dean let loose the whisper of a noise, and Castiel huffed out a breath. He was dizzy with arousal. He needed to touch himself, touch Dean—Dean needed to fucking touch _him_ —before he lost his fucking mind. Dean knew it and pressed a smile into his cheek.

"You like this, huh?"

"Fuck me, goddamnit."

"When I'm good and fucking ready," Dean growled.

He was over the games, the waiting, this... arousal so immediate, so acute, it was painful. He spent all his frustration on a last-ditch effort and jerked back, grabbing a handful of Dean—and squeezing. Dean yelped and pulled away, his body heat gone, his touch missing. The opposite of what he wanted. He thought he might look up, find Dean and do whatever it took to get him back, but didn't get the chance. Dean was on him again, yanking on his tie, pulling his neck at an angle that'd hurt for days.

"You gonna be real sorry you did that, Cas."

Dean lost control over his southern accent when he saw red, and it dripped from his mouth now, all soft edges and charm that had no place promising punishment. Dean let him go, and Castiel choked on lost air, dazed and confused while, behind him, Dean made noises his brain couldn't understand. Something splintered and a something else may have crashed to the floor. Only when the phone cord was tied around his wrists did he figure it out. Dean had ripped the phone out of the wall and had all but hog-tied him. Castiel twisted his wrists. 

The cord didn't budge. 

"Untie me," Castiel hissed. " _Now_.

"No," Dean said, stuffing his blue silk tie in his mouth. "Shut up."

Castiel growled, straining his hands against his bindings while Dean touched him experimentally. He smoothed a rough hand over his ass again, and it was enough to still him. Castiel closed his eyes against the way his fingers squeezed, jerked them open and grunted when Dean cracked a hand against his cheek. The sound seemed voluminous even in the large office, so loud that he feared the whole building might come running to watch him get punished. Dean's touch fell away again, quick and pointed, as if he intended to smack him again. Castiel forced out a noise through the expensive gag. It meant no, loud and clear, and Dean responded favorably, resting a hand on his assumedly red, abused skin. Dean rubbed the mark tenderly, _his_ mark, and kissed it, once, twice, as if to apologize for the misstep, then backed away entirely. His heat, his everything, gone. Castiel relaxed. 

That was his first mistake.

Dean touched him again and, this time, his muscles constricted so tight, he thought he might tear at the seams. As always, the touch was gentle, a finger, his thumb maybe, tracing the crack of his ass, teasing his hole. The noise he made wasn't no, but inexplicably _yes_ , deep and thick in the back of his throat. Though tied and gagged, Castiel had the freedom of movement, and he jerked his hips back. The tip of Dean's thumb slipped into him, and Castiel gasped, inhaling expensive fabric and sputtering, fighting to breathe through his nose. Behind him, Dean chuckled. It sounded smug, triumphant. One hundred percent Dean Winchester.

Without warning, without teasing him until he broke, Dean plunged his finger inside of him. Castiel arched his back, kicking his head back in a position so lewd and full of surrender that he didn't recognize himself anymore. The feeling of Dean inside him, even if it was just a finger, sent him flopping back down, head banging on the desk. Dean's other fingers, soothing, softly stroking him, brushed up and down along his balls. It drove him crazy. He was feverish with it, sweating, and panting, and making noises he didn't know he knew how to make. He knew then, that moment, that Dean would be the death of him. If this was indeed Death, he'd welcome him with open arms.

Castiel didn't have to thrust his hips back, eager for more contact. Dean slid his thumb out and in, out again, in an easy, slow—fucking _aggravating_ —rhythm that made every heartbeat in his throat hurt. He needed more than this, more than Dean treating him like delicate china or worse, like a lover. He wanted a fast, dry fuck. It had to hurt. More than that, he wanted Dean's dick, not a finger. He was greedy, impatient, and Castiel whimpered like a drug addict who was desperate for his fix.

"Fuck. You _are_ a whore for dick."

Castiel spread his legs wider, angling his ass up, prostrating himself like a lamb up for slaughter. Low in his throat, Dean groaned, and it turned his legs to jelly. The sound rolled up his spine and kissed his skin, and he shivered with it, digging his head into the cherry desk. Pain made a home on his forehead, and it grounded him, prevented him from falling apart as Dean slipped his thumb out and left him empty. Castiel whined. Dean shut him up by sinking two fingers into his wide, eager hole.

The silk blue tie almost went down his throat.

Gone was the gentle touch and barely-there kisses. Dean punished his ass with his fingers, and Castiel nearly came after the third thrust. Sweat dripped down his forehead, his heart bleeding into every single one of his groans, every thrust harder and more brutal, every nerve ending a blazing inferno. Over the rush, the tinkle of a belt buckle, the harsh hiss of a zipper—Castiel had to think of mergers, numbers, and hostile takeovers, to stop himself from coming right then and there. Dean was going to fuck him with his dick. His heart burned a hole in his chest. It'd been too long. Weeks. Nearly a month without Dean drilling him from the inside.

But when Dean didn't, when instead, he began to jack off... Castiel let out another fitful noise, muffled by the tie in his mouth. Dean either didn't hear him or didn't care. The unmistakable sound of hand-on-dick continued behind him, rough and fast. Castiel imagined Dean's flushed cock slipping in and out of his fist, how beautiful it looked, and how much he wanted to taste him again. He recalled every vivid detail from that night in the alleyway; his face when the pleasure was just right, the smell of him, the way Dean grabbed and tugged at himself, and how breathtaking it had been. Castiel groaned again. Then he stopped caring.

He'd get his fuck however he could.

Castiel slammed his hips back over and over again, spreading his legs even wider so Dean's fingers could reach their maximum depth. Dean faltered, choked off a surprised groan, and fought for control. The pace became uneven, distracted, but Castiel didn't care. He rubbed his uncut dick against the top of the desk, found his friction, and rode it until it threatened to shatter him apart. Dean fucked him with his fingers as much as he could, trying to keep up, trying to jack off behind him. Castiel was so close to the edge. It was in his throat, it twisted his stomach, and squeezed at his insides. Castiel clenched around Dean's fingers—and Dean curled them.

His orgasm ripped through him, quick and devastating, making him lose all strength in his legs. Castiel buckled with a cry, and Dean pulled his fingers free, holding him up and still by the neck. Then Dean inched forward, unbearable heat burning against his naked ass. Castiel sucked in air through his nose, dizzy with the effort, unable to fill his lungs quickly enough. Behind him, Dean jerked and pulled, panting hard, each breath mixed with a noise of absolute bliss. Then, slowly, needing that final push, Dean dragged the root of his dick, his balls, across the crack of his ass—and that was when Dean lost it. Coming...

All over his back and his fucking Armani suit jacket.

Dean chuckled as if it were a joke and bracketed Castiel's head with his hands. Teasing him, adding insult to injury, Dean rubbed his softening dick against his ass, just enough to make it interesting, then annoying, because he was still bound, and Dean wouldn't let him _touch it_.

When Dean's heat fell away, Castiel let out a growl. He wanted out of this mess, to clean Dean's stink off him, to go home and lick his wounds after yet another defeat. Dean buckled and zipped up behind him. Castiel jerked his wrists, and let Dean clearly know that he wanted to be untied. Now.

Dean slapped his ass again. The sound reverberated. Castiel flinched.

"You know what, Cas? I think this little deal we got going on is gonna to work out _just fine_." Dean rounded the desk and leveled his gaze. "See ya around, sweetheart."

Dean winked and that was the last he saw of him. His chuckle was the last he heard of him.

Then his office door slammed.

He was left tied, gagged, and ruined. Prostrated over his desk for the whole of Jersey City to see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm horrible at knowing what to tag for. If you feel there's a tag missing, please leave a comment with your thoughts. Thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> (And thank you to SurlyCat for the suggestions so far!)


	4. Chapter 4

**DAY: 4**

For the last three days, he'd been swept up in the rushing tide of his work. Goldman Sachs' largest deal to date, the Draper-Larkin acquisition, was still in its infantile stage and needed lots of tender care and attention. He took it upon himself to oversee the finer details, and with a delicate workload and no room for distractions, there had been no time for Dean. No time for their little... arrangement. 

No time to keep his newest complication _in line_.

During the radio silence, Dean had situated his brother in the most expensive rehabilitation facility Dean could find. Just an hour outside New York City, Provenance Rehabilitation Center boasted clean beds, lush gardens, and the very best care. It even had yoga classes according to the brochure that had magically appeared on his desk one morning. A sticky note—"Thanks. I owe you big time. -D"—had been stuck to it, and Castiel promised himself he wouldn't show Dean much mercy next time he saw him.

After his first call Thursday morning, Castiel wouldn't show him any at all.

Dr. Jody Mills, managing physician at Provenance Rehabilitation Center, gushed about the facility's finer offerings, then ran him through the overview of Sam's treatment as if Castiel had a personal stake in the matter, or Sam mattered to him at all. Castiel was hailed as a charitable person, a good and generous man, a veritable saint. Dr. Mills promised she and her staff would take excellent care of Sam, as good as the CEO of Goldman Sachs took care of others. The long, arduous conversation ended with Dr. Mills promising to report in every week personally on Sam's progress. For the next ninety days, Castiel decided to let every phone call go to voicemail.

So, Dean had been busy. He'd gone out of his way to sing Castiel's praises, to publically connect him and his company with Sam's _charitable_ care. Dean had created a brilliant fail-safe. Should Castiel tire of Dean, decide to terminate their deal for whatever reason, he wouldn't be able to. Not without spoiling his name, or worse, shining a murky light on Goldman Sachs. He could pay for Dr. Mills' silence, which would undoubtedly cost him a pretty penny, but she didn't seem the type to simply lay down and take it. Her spirit suggested a love for justice, and the passion with which she spoke about her patients rivaled a million strong, fierce women. She'd talk, he knew. Questions would be asked, by his superiors and maybe even the media, and his competency would be thrown into question. He couldn't risk it.

To make everything more... complicated, weekly calls from Dr. Mills would keep him personally involved in Sam's rehabilitation. Maybe, he was sure Dean hoped, he might even begin to care.

Dean wasn't a stupid man—and his unexpected cunning was just as unexpectedly _arousing_.

Staring at the ceiling, Castiel lay in his bed with the sheets twisted around his legs. He'd been tossing and turning all night, and now, at 2:35 a.m. on Saturday, he couldn't stop thinking about Dean and, subsequently, his own hard, aching dick. The thought of letting Dean off the hook tonight was fleeting. Castiel flipped onto his side and grabbed his phone off the nightstand. He called Dean's number and waited.

Three rings echoed hollowly in his ear. Mocking him. Telling him that Dean wouldn't honor his part of the bargain. In the morning, he'd call Provenance and terminate Sam's residence, damn the consequences. He wasn't charitable. He certainly wasn't a good and generous—

Dean picked up before it went to voicemail. "Yeah, hello?"

Dean's voice was dark and rough with sleep, and it pulled at the heat already hell-hot in his boxers. Castiel let out an easy, smooth breath. It did nothing to stop him from saying, "Dean, I need you."

"What?" There was a rustle on Dean's side of the phone. Old, creaky bedsprings, maybe. In Dean's reality, the rush of the Manhattan Bridge was unmistakable—and _loud_. He wondered how Dean got any sleep at all. Dean's voice came back bewildered. "Holy shit, Cas. It's almost three in the morning."

" _Now_ , Dean." 

Castiel hung up. He texted his address with a few finger strokes.

It took Dean almost thirty minutes to get to his apartment in Upper East Side. Security already had a copy of his driver's license and would let Dean up any time Castiel notified them of his pending arrival—and _only_ then. It was a necessary safeguard. Dean could never show up unexpectedly when Castiel didn't need him.

There was a knock at the door. Castiel pulled it open to a bleary-eyed Dean, hair disheveled and looking worse for wear. He'd pulled on an old AC/DC T-shirt and worn dark jeans. His leather jacket hung off his shoulders, limp and tired, as if it too thought it was much too early for this.

"I'm here," Dean said, a touch irritated. "No questions asked."

"Like we agreed," he reminded him.

Castiel stepped back from the door and Dean came in, giving the grand foyer a cursory glance. "Nice place," he said evenly. There was no wide-eyed fascination. No awe in his voice. The comment was flat and lifeless, as if the intricate crown molding and marble floors weren't true works of art. Dean's dissatisfaction and all-around bad attitude showed when he dropped his jacket and motorcycle helmet on the entryway's dark wood bench. Acting as if he owned the place, treating _his_ bench like it hadn't cost nearly one thousand dollars.

He narrowed his eyes, giving the offending things a pointed look. Dean eyed them too, then drew his gaze up to his own and simply smirked, unfazed by the silent reprimand. Castiel bristled. If his irritation had shown on his face, Dean didn't care, slowly closing the door while his green eyes traveled up the length of him. The gleam in them—he'd seen it before, knew right then that Dean was just as hungry with want as he was. He wondered if Dean could see it in the curve of his spine and in the heave of his chest. When Dean came closer, every step gradual and calculated, Castiel backed up. He wondered if Dean could smell his arousal. His sweat. His heart rattled in his chest, and he wondered if Dean could hear that too.

Dean kept coming, cornering him until Castiel met the solid wall behind him, then bracketed his hands on either side of his head and leaned in. Castiel held his breath and stood impossibly still as Dean studied him. The silence between them was deafening. Then, with a small smile, Dean moved. He brushed the backs of his fingers over Castiel's cheek. It was like satin on naked skin, only more luxurious. Sinful in a way dark chocolate and red wine could only be. He wanted Dean to keep touching him like that, and the want alone was disturbing. It was a touch he could get drunk off of, get lost in and never be found. Dangerous because he could easily lose control, and he _always_ had to be in control.

Clenching his jaw, Castiel turned his face in the opposite direction. A message that said "don't touch," that Dean had gone too far—a message Dean flat out ignored.

Dean thumbed the underside of his jaw, the side Castiel fought to conceal from him. Like a moth drawn to flame, Castiel let his touch guide him. They stood there face-to-face and looked at each other. Castiel noticed with grim realization that he himself wasn't breathing. That Dean had all but completely enthralled him—just to figure out, almost too late, that Dean was closing the distance between them. He stared at his mouth and entertained the thought of letting Dean kiss him. He imagined their lips pressed together and wondered what it'd be like. Gentle, maybe, with Dean's full lips lightly suckling at his own. Or rough with a little bit of pain. Both options made his hard dick jump with excitement, and he had no doubt Dean felt it. Dean smiled slyly, like he knew, and snaked a hand around Castiel's waist to draw their hips together. He'd never admit that whimper had been his own. Just like he swore he'd never get caught up in all things Dean Winchester.

"Kinda glad you called me up here," Dean whispered. His words touched him like Dean might.

Castiel swallowed, lifting his chin a degree or so. They stared at each other before Dean's eyes dropped to his lips. They were ready for him, parted slightly to let out a ribbon of air. He wanted Dean to kiss him, wanted to feel his lips all over his skin. Suddenly, it didn't seem to matter that Castiel had sworn off kissing and intimacy years ago. Kissing led to romance, relationships, and _complications_. Hard, dirty fucking was safe and easy.

Dean didn't want easy.

He pulled Castiel in closer and moistened his lips. The heat of Dean's tongue teased his mouth, and Castiel swore he could almost taste him even though they weren't kissing. A touch of hours-old whiskey on his breath, something else dangerous and completely intoxicating. His head got wrapped around the smells, Dean's heat, how close he was to—

Castiel whipped his head away, and Dean's soft lips connected solidly with his jaw line, there and then gone. Surprise and disappointment made the air heavier, the silence more deadly. Castiel swallowed hard, the sound loud and intrusive, and said, "No kissing."

"What?"

He didn't look at or acknowledge Dean, only squeezed out from under him and walked away. He left him and his sigh behind, padding barefoot through the long, wide hallway that ran like a black river through his home. The white walls on either side were adorned with elaborate paintings, crown molding, and gleamed with recessed lighting. He walked past bedrooms meant for guests, his own, and ended up in the living room with floor-to-ceiling windows, the same dark wood floors and sheer white walls. An enormous plasma screen TV was the only thing that interrupted his sprawling view of New York City. In front of it a white, plush carpet and a luxurious leather white couch; the living room's centerpiece. 

He stripped himself unceremoniously and prostrated himself over the armrest. Behind him, Dean let out another sigh. "Don't you want to try a new position?"

"No."

"Yeah, well..." Frustration. "I don't feel like doing it here. Where's your bedroom?"

Castiel glared over his shoulder. "We're fucking _here_."

Dean came at him like a dark storm, his hand a strike of lighting. Castiel hissed as Dean grabbed him by the hair and yanked him up, his spine brought flush against Dean's chest. There was violence in the way Dean held him, a cold, unforgiving bite in his voice. "Where's your goddamn bedroom?"

He didn't have time to react before Dean twisted his arm behind his back, demanding and impatient. The pain made him call out, and he folded against Dean like a ragdoll, head limp on his shoulder and throat exposed. There was an awful moment of silence and pain. Then, Dean's breath whispered across his skin like salvation. Castiel trembled and Dean leaned in, hovering, teasing him, before he brushed his lips against his neck. It made him shiver, _jolt_ when Dean nosed his way up to the hollow spot behind his ear.

"Don't make me hurt you, Cas," he said, and it cut like a blade. Dean jerked him forward. "Bedroom."

He acquiesced to the pain and led Dean to the master bedroom. From the floor-to-ceiling windows, the moon slashed silver light across the walls, the dark floors, making them brighter, darker, than they actually were. The foam-mattress bed, much too big for a single person, seemed much larger in the sparsely-furnished room. The same intricate crown molding, the view of Central Park—Dean didn't pause to marvel at any of it. He simply sent him forward with one devastating push.

Castiel tumbled face-first. Dean grabbed his hips from behind and pulled off his boxers with one clean yank. The warm air hit his skin and his cock jumped with the thrill of it. Dean was moving then, the hot rush of Dean's suddenly naked body heat forcing him to gasp as it settled along his own, head-to-toe. Dean's hard dick nudged his ass. It'd been _weeks_ since he had Dean inside him and having him so close, _right there_ , shortchanged his lungs of air. Castiel panted into the soft blankets, gasped when Dean pressed down on him. It had Castiel grinding back into Dean's hips in a way that should've brought him shame. It brought him lust and satisfaction instead.

Dean's groan was the reward he needed. The sound vibrated through him, and Castiel dropped his head into high thread count sheets and made a noise—something that had Dean thrusting his hips forward, dragging his cock long and hard against his hole. Castiel swore under his breath. Nearly folded. He couldn't stop his body from trembling. Dean kissed his shoulder to soothe him, dotting his skin with tiny pecks. Every one of them corroded and burned. This wasn't what he wanted. He wanted to be fucked hard. Not kissed tenderly. 

Castiel gripped the mattress as the weight of them piled up. Crushing him. When Dean teethed his earlobe, Castiel lost his patience. He sent a sharp elbow into Dean's ribs.

There was a grunt of pain, then a low, dark growl—beautiful... and absolutely terrifying.

His reprimand wasn't gentle, only quick and brutal. Dean snaked an arm around his neck and yanked him up, ramrod straight and flush against him. Castiel could barely breathe in the 'v' his upper- and forearm made, and he fought for air. Dean squeezed harder and jerked him punishingly. Nipped at his ear with teeth so it'd hurt. 

"You want it fucking hard?" The question was as sharp as broken glass.

Dean tightened his hold, threatening to cut off his air supply completely, and Castiel scrabbled with blunt nails. It was dizzying. His heart pounded harder with the struggle. The oak headboard, stained dark, began to blur in front of his eyes. The thought of losing consciousness both frightened and thrilled him. He entertained letting himself go, slip into Dean's touch, his warmth, and oncoming darkness, but it was Dean reaching between their bodies that had him suddenly more alert and clear-headed. Then, Dean plunged in deep, and the pain was _exquisite_.

Out of reflex, Castiel flung his hand back and gripped Dean's ass. He tried to breathe through the pain, but grew more dizzy and weaker with the effort. Dean loosened his arm—out of pity or humanity, he didn't know—and kept his hips still. With a gasp, Castiel drew in a rush of air. His head began to clear... enough to realize that Dean had reverted to his southern upbringing and charm; gentle in a way that was too much to handle. Dean pressed his lips to the back of his neck, as an apology possibly, and nosed his dark hair. This was what it must be like, then, to have a lover, to have someone care, to apologize, to pepper skin with affection and worship. 

He preferred pain and fucking.

Castiel pulled Dean's hips into him. Hard. Behind him, against his neck, Dean let out a low groan, then gave in, thrusting over and over again, shallow at first, commanding later, until Castiel saw nothing. Just darkness, a blackness that ate him up in a rolling tide of bliss, seeping into every cell he possessed. Pleasure took over. Dean pumped his hips and slid every inch he had into him. Harder and harder, until all they were was an obscene sound of slapping flesh, sweat, and heat.

Each brutal thrust forced air out of him, off-kilter with the normal rhythm of his body. If Dean stopped fucking him, he might stop breathing altogether. He might anyway, still. Dean tightened his hold on his throat. They trembled together with the impending release. The thrill of it—Dean ripping him apart from the inside, being choked, the smell of their sex raw in the air—threw him over the edge. He found his orgasm with a cry and went boneless in Dean's arms. If Dean found his own, he didn't know and didn't care. 

Dean let him go, and Castiel fell face-forward into pillows and dreams.

:::

He opened his eyes to the sunlit brightness of his master bedroom, to the warm high thread count sheets soft against his skin. The digital clock on his nightstand read 9:55 a.m. on Saturday morning. He'd slept in, which was uncharacteristically lazy of him, and would have to make up his early-morning run after his breakfast. The residual exhaustion of a half night's sleep made him yawn, stretch high over his head, then wide—

Castiel collapsed in on himself when he touched warm skin. 

He whipped his head toward the windows and blanched when the sun blinded him. Light spots danced behind his eyelids. He didn't need to open them again to know _he_ was there, snoring beside him like a hibernating bear. Disgust hit him first. Then, barely noticeable, and growing increasingly stronger, was a flutter of _something_ in his gut he wouldn't dare name. Dean had stayed the night. In his bed. With _him_.

He hadn't given him permission to stay.

Castiel shielded his eyes with a hand, boring a glare into Dean's profile—a hateful look Dean couldn't see because he was still sound asleep. He thought about kicking him hard in the shin or strangling him, maybe. Their arrangement didn't include nights spent in bed together. It _especially_ didn't include waking up next to each other the next morning.

He stopped mid kick when Dean snuffled a little, sleepily scratching his bare chest. When Dean settled again, Castiel let out the breath he'd been holding and relaxed. He should kick Dean out. Out of his bed, out of his home, and out into the winter air. 

Laying there, quiet, still, preparing for it, he stared at Dean for a long time, watching the soft sunlight illuminate the field of freckles on his face. From this angle, his lashes looked fuller, feather-like, his hair in sharp, messy little spikes all over his head. Dean looked as sweetly innocent as a boy on a warm summer's day. It didn't match the memory of the strong, able-bodied man fucking him last night, and the mismatched image disturbed him. Dean's partly opened lips made everything worse, and Castiel fantasized about kissing him. In his mind, Castiel was on top, grinding against him and stealing sweet moments of affection that were far beneath him. Thinking of work and the Draper-Larkin acquisition didn't help. His thoughts and eyes gravitated back to Dean. 

The sheets barely covered his naked body, and the sun gleamed off his skin like gold. It reminded him of butterscotch candy and sun-lit fields, the light hitting the lake just right as the afternoon slipped into the golden hour. His bare chest was solid, his cock hard and ready. Seeing him like that, stretched out and vulnerable—it shouldn't have made him so incredibly _hard_ and so willing to suck Dean's dick until he couldn't breathe.

He desperately searched for something else to study, away from the temptation of waking Dean up   
unconventionally. His attention anchored to the dark ink swirling under Dean's skin. Odd little symbols lined his collarbone, and a pentagram in fire had been etched into the flesh over his heart. He wondered what its story was and why anyone, most of all Dean, would want it on his body. His head swam with ideas of occults and satanic practices, but Dean didn't seem the type to sacrifice virgins to a myth. 

Castiel looked at him. No, Dean seemed to be the type to be sacrificed instead.

With another snort, Dean draped his arm over his eyes. Castiel stilled, then relaxed when Dean resumed his snoring. He couldn't help but let his eyes wander again. The sleeve he could see... it was more detailed with its black and grays, shaded so perfectly the images threatened to jump off his skin. Primary feathers of a bird's wing extended down the back of his upper arm. He visualized the rest of it, imperious on his back in rich, vivid detail, stretching wide across his beautiful skin. He thought maybe Dean could fly. Maybe he was an angel in disguise. To make sure neither was the case, he reached out with gentle fingers... and touched.

He traced thin lines that ran into thicker ones, let his fingertips linger on the dark shades, and kissed his skin with feather-light touches among the grays. If he didn't know any better, he'd think the artwork had simply been printed onto his arm, his skin pliable paper. The feathers stretched out like fingers might spread, ending in ragged detail as if Dean were an age-worn eagle. Wise. Patient. Absolutely breathtaking. So very _Dean_. When Dean wasn't being incredibly, infuriatingly—

" _God_ , you are beautiful when you smile."

Castiel snapped his head up. Dean was awake, looking at him, and somehow, in this light, his eyes were greener than he'd ever seen them. Dean's smile... was as wide as his—something he hadn't noticed on his face until now. Quickly, he replaced it with a scowl and inched the sheets up to his collarbone. Everything, Dean's smile, their closeness, the intimacy... it was all so very suddenly _indecent_.

"You weren't supposed to spend the night."

Dean's face fell. There was a beat before Dean sighed. "Yeah, well. My place is clear across town," he answered as if his excuse was a valid one. "Besides, it didn't seem like you wanted me to leave."

Castiel narrowed his eyes to slits. "Did I _ask_ you to stay?"

"No, but I know what loneliness looks like."

The answer hit him square in the jaw. He lay there dumbfounded and stared at him, unable to do anything else. Dean opened his mouth to say something. It was the very same moment Castiel recovered. 

"Get out."

Dean returned his stare, and it was his turn to be caught by surprise. It was in his eyes, then devoured by something more sinister. Dean clenched his jaw and sat up, whipping the covers back. "You know what? I don't get you. One minute you're hot, the next... you're like friggin' Antarctica. You should deal with that."

" _Get out_."

Without another word, Dean gathered his clothes and left the bedroom. The front door slammed approximately three minutes later—he counted—and left him to burn as hot and angry as the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm horrible at knowing what to tag for. If you feel there's a tag missing, please leave a comment with your thoughts. Thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> (And thank you to SurlyCat and avyssoseleison for the suggestions so far!)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today is my birthday so I thought I'd give everyone a present and release a part early! Don't worry. I'll post tomorrow too, right on schedule. Enjoy! <3

**DAY: 10**

He stared across the chessboard at his opponent. Joshua studied the white pieces, calculating, tapping an index finger against his pursed lips. It was a sunny day in Central Park, rare in New York City's cruel winters, but the nice weather wasn't helping his game. He was losing. Again.

Joshua reached for the white knight and peeked up at him, grinning his crooked smile. Castiel frowned. How many times had he lost to that same goddamn piece? Too many to count. It was his weakness and Joshua knew it; a sore spot Joshua loved to pick at every Thursday of every week, like a woodpecker stabbing away at the same hole in the same tree. When Joshua lifted his hand away, Castiel relaxed. The old man moved a pawn instead, his last one, and sat back. Not saying a word. Never saying a single word. Silence had always been a part of Joshua's charm.

Castiel studied the board, the pieces, their positions, then looked up at his opponent. Joshua wasn't looking at him, but away, over at a young mother with her baby on the park bench. At a pair of men throwing a Frisbee, at an older man, about Joshua's age, walking his horse of a dog. Joshua didn't need to pay attention to the game. Any move Castiel could make was the wrong one, and he was headed toward another one of Joshua's toothless grins, the one that said "check mate" when Joshua didn't have to.

He quickly ran through the moves still available to him. None of them would end in victory, and Castiel let out a growl, moved his queen and sat back, arms crossed over his chest. The sound drew Joshua back into the game, and he took quick stock of the board before swooping in with his king. Joshua flashed him a toothless grin, rapping twice on the board.

Check mate. Game over.

Castiel shot him a glare, then fished out a wad of cash and tossed it down on black and white. One thousand dollars, the usual pay for a win. How Joshua stayed homeless, and what he did with the money, he didn't know. Didn't care. Joshua's happy smile, his infectious, uplifting disposition... it kept him human.

:::

He inspected the large bottle's insides like a doctor might with his patient. A small boat sat inside, masts down, waiting to be straightened and secured, longing to be finished. Soft choral voices floated through the small room, a safe place with shelves and finished projects, of boats in bottles, both large and small. While Rachmaninoff's _All-Night Vigil_ knit his frazzled nerves back together, he tugged at the boat's control threads. Once, twice. Testing. The backward and forward masts straightened then collapsed, folding, unfolding like small wings. Every thread and sail, pivot wire and boom worked as they should. The rigging was precise, the bowsprit strong. Crafting small boats from blocks of wood and putting them in bottles kept his mind sharp as a blade. 

Handling delicate things instead of crushing them kept him human. 

Castiel pulled the control threads—and flinched when the building's security buzzed. He frowned and ignored it, pulling the tiny strings again and holding them taut. Another buzz set his teeth on edge. The third, a minute later, made his face flush redder than the boat's tiny hull. He clenched his jaw when the fourth split the air and made it to the grand foyer before the fifth, before he tore the building down around his head.

He pounded on the intercom's button. " _What?_ "

The word struck like a viper.

"Uh, good evening, Mr. Sant'Angelo." Heavy New York accent. A new security guard; someone he didn't know. "I got someone here t'see you. Name's Dean Winchester."

Castiel recoiled as if he'd been hit. Dean. Here at his home. _Uninvited_. That _wasn't_ a part of the deal. He scowled and grit his teeth, pressing the button again. "Is he on the visitor's list?"

"Uh..." There was a rustle of paper. "I don't—oh, there's a note. Says here that if you ain't expectin' him, that he ain't allowed up. Signed Alastair."

"So why the _fuck_ is he still in the lobby?" he hissed. "Send him _away_."

"Yeah, this Dean fella said you'd say that," the heavy New York accent said, "Look, Mr. S., I don't know what's what—it's my first day in this here building—but he told me to tell you that it was a matter of life an' death."

Bullshit.

He let out a cutting sigh—"Let him up... and get Alastair back _immediately_ "—then paced the marble floors, waiting. Dean Winchester had become the complication his life didn't need. Ways of breaking it off without scandal raced through his head. Anger tightened his muscles into coils, and when the bell finally rang, Castiel sprung for the door and whipped it open. He had insults on the tip of his tongue, excuses to get rid of him. 

Every one of them died indignantly in his throat.

There stood Dean Winchester, in his doorway, with a smug smile on his face, something that gradually fell as they looked each other over. A classic black dinner jacket, one size too small, and white shirt clung to Dean's torso. Oddly enough, the ensemble gave him a touch of elegance, but was amiss with the days' old stubble on his face. The cowboy boots—no longer sexy, but fucking ridiculous and so very _Dean_ —made him look rugged. Charming. The tight black jeans fit him like a god begging to be fucked, and the unmistakable bulge in his jeans...

Castiel flicked his gaze up to Dean's face. Dean was eyeing him like a steak, mouth slightly agape, and it made him look down at himself. His crisp white shirt had been unbuttoned down to his breastbone, his sleeves rolled up at the elbows. He still hadn't taken off his black slacks, which were tailored to fit snug in all the right places. If something this simple was enough to—

"I meant it when I said I'd wine and dine you," Dean said, voice scratchy. He flashed him a smile that could melt ice. "They're not fit for a king or anything, but a five-dollar box of wine and shitty take-out are all I can afford on a dishwasher's salary."

Castiel tilted his head a notch, then looked down at Dean's hands. He held a box of wine and a white plastic bag. Wining and dining... that wasn't a part of the agreement either. None of this—dinner, Dean's being here—was on _his terms_. He wasn't _in control_ —

"Washing dishes at 36?"

—so he struck hard. What he'd said cut, and Dean bled out with a frown. "I'm not even going to ask how you know my age."

"Lucky guess."

Dean clenched his jaw. Debating, possibly, whether to let it go or strike back. Castiel wanted him to strike, for them to fight and end this fucking arrangement between them right here, right now. Dean leaned against the doorjamb as smooth as silk instead, eyeing him up-and-down in a way that made his dick half-hard. "You going to let me in or what?"

"No," Castiel said quickly. "It would be best if you left."

Dean smirked and glanced down the hall at nothing. "This is what we're going to do, Cas," he said low, looking back at him, "We're going to go inside, eat some shitty food, drink some shitty wine..." A smile slid onto Dean's face. "Then, I'm going to fuck you until you can't breathe. You got it?" 

He swallowed, his dick achingly hard and miles ahead of his brain. Castiel took an involuntary step backward, and his own personal complication waltzed in, slipping him that same shit-eating smile that almost always broke him in two. 

"Knew you'd see it my way, sweetheart."

_Sweetheart_.

It'd taken him a second to react, enough time for Dean to slip in and invade his personal space. The sneer died on his face, and they stood face-to-face, inches apart. Unnervingly close. Too intimate to even think. 

Castiel stood like an immovable wall, frozen, while Dean looked him over. Sizing him up as if he were dinner. Their eyes met. Dean licked his lips slowly—and that was all it took for his brain to completely shut down. Nothing else existed except Dean, how close he was, the unbearable heat between them. He wanted to bend over, spread his legs and let Dean take him in ways he'd never speak of in the light of day. 

"You change your mind already about letting me in?"

That cocky smile... _God_ , he wanted to drop to his knees. 

Castiel took a deep, steadying breath and tilted his chin up. "Take off those goddamn boots. I don't know where they've been."

"You should be more worried about where _I'm_ going to be after dinner." Deep in his ass went unsaid. Dean brushed the back of a hand against his cheekbone, catching Castiel off guard. He backed away before Dean could try for a kiss like he always did.

Dean smirked and set the wine and food on his favorite bench. Castiel glared at the top of Dean's head while Dean took off his boots, as he set them aside neatly. A bare big toe wiggled out from a hole in one of his socks, a bare heel peeking out from another. What man couldn't afford new socks? 

Castiel narrowed his eyes at him, and Dean just smiled, completely oblivious. Completely... stunning. Castiel grabbed the food and wine, turned, and shot a look over his shoulder. "Follow me—and _don't_ touch anything."

He led Dean through the expansive apartment, past ornate woodwork and expensive paintings. The kitchen emptied out into the main living area, the open-concept giving both spaces a lease on enormous windows that showcased New York City's glittering lights and sluggish traffic below. In the mornings, he'd take his coffee by those same floor-to-ceiling windows and watch the city come to life in the pre-dawn hours; the only part of his day he actually liked. But that was neither here nor there. No, instead, he was forced to entertain his... _guest_ , in _his_ state-of-the-art kitchen, drinking shitty wine and—Castiel sniffed—eating cheap sweet and sour chicken. He turned his nose up at the smell, took out plates and glasses, then turned to find—

Absolutely nothing.

Castiel growled low in his throat and stormed out of the kitchen. "Dean!"

No answer.

He tore through the apartment, closing doors that'd been opened, straightening a painting that'd been touched, wiping off a mirror that'd been smudged. He found Dean in the master bedroom, spread-eagled across the memory-foam mattress like it was his. Like this was _his room, his apartment, his life_. 

Castiel clenched his fists. He couldn't stop his body from quaking.

"This bed remembers me," Dean said wistfully, suddenly, like Dean _knew_ he was there.

He grit his teeth. "Get off the bed, _Dean_."

Dean did as he was told, patting the bed lovingly on his way to the door. On the way into his _space_ again.

"I told you not to touch anything," Castiel hissed, backing up against a wall.

Dean stepped closer. A small smile played at the edge of Dean's lips. It made Castiel dizzy, made him hold in a breath that eventually grew hot and burned his lungs. That same breath rushed out when Dean touched his hip with his right hand, letting it settle there like Dean had a right to touch him at all. Fingers from his left brushed the underside of his chin. Unable to help himself, Castiel notched his head up, dazed, under his spell. Dean had cologne on, and it was earthy, like the smell of fresh rain with a dangerous undertone that made Castiel want to lose control. A note of sweat, oil from a car, maybe—everything _Dean_ , tempting him to bury his face in Dean's neck and stay there until the sun rose and the world forgot about them. 

Dean thumbed his jaw, drawing a line long and slow. Castiel stood there. Hard. Aching.

"You don't want me to touch anything." Dean smiled. "You sure about that?"

He wasn't sure about anything anymore. 

Castiel opened his mouth uselessly. Not a single word came to rescue him, and Dean winked at his silence. He ignored how weak his knees felt and forced himself to turn away, walking out the bedroom door, toward the kitchen. Anywhere from temptation. His mind fumbled over itself, scattered, his throat dry and irritated. He wasn't in control. Couldn't get a handle on what Dean was doing to him, or _how_. 

If Dean was playing some sort of... sick mind game with him...

He clenched his fists. Behind him, Dean rattled a doorknob, and Castiel whirled.

"What's in here?"

His boats. Peace and quiet.

"None of your business," Castiel snapped.

"Is this where you plot to take over the world?"

"No."

The seriousness of the answer drew a chuckle out of Dean, and the sound tickled his spine. It was deep, beautiful, almost intimate and private in a way, like Dean rarely laughed or found enjoyment in anything. He caught himself wondering if it'd sound the same beneath sheets, against his skin. 

Castiel shuddered and turned away from him, clenching his fists even tighter. He'd find little red crescents from his fingernails in the morning. 

In the kitchen, empty plates and glasses waited for them. Castiel retreated to the counter and took a steadying breath. Dean was getting on his fucking nerves, trying to wheedle his way past his defenses. He busied himself by opening all the white food containers, some of them filled with things he didn't recognize. It wasn't often that he—

Dean sidled up behind him, peering over his shoulder. Close. So fucking close. Castiel swallowed and stood still, his muscles straining until they were trembling with the effort. If Dean noticed his discomfort, he didn't give a shit. Dean bracketed his hands on the counter, on either side of his body, not quite touching him. It left him nestled between wanting Dean to move closer and wanting Dean to leave and never come back. 

The indecision and confusion was maddening.

"You ever had Chinese before?"

Each syllable danced across the back of his neck.

"Yes," Castiel whispered, dazed.

"So you know what everything is?"

"Yes," he lied.

"You sure?"

_Fuck_. Castiel closed his eyes. Dean had inched forward, he was sure of it, each word kissing his skin, every breath threatening to undo him. He was better than this, goddamnit. Things like this—they didn't unnerve him.

Castiel strengthened his resolve—

"You lying to me, Cas?"

—and Dean crushed it with a whisper against his ear. Right then, with Dean this close, with _danger_ in his voice, he wanted to be punished for lying. Wanted Dean to grab his hips and run him through with his hard dick, right here against the counter. 

Castiel let out a shuddering breath and mumbled, "Yes," hoping it'd get him what he wanted.

Dean smiled, he could practically _feel_ it, and pointed to a container. "Kung Po chicken" never sounded so fucking erotic as it did now, "sweet and sour chicken" tickling every hair on its end. "If you don't know what rice is, we have a problem." Castiel nearly fell apart when Dean chuckled. "Last but not least, beef lo mein—my favorite."

To keep his mind and hands busy, Castiel served himself some out of each container, spilling sauce and scattering rice across the counter. He made a move to get out from under Dean, but Dean had other plans. He locked his arms, making a cage out of bone and muscle. "What about me? You just gonna leave me hanging?"

Castiel took deep breaths, dragging them in slowly, filling his lungs completely, then let them out even slower. Just to get a grip on whatever hold Dean had over him. He was drowning, he could feel it in his chest, and Dean was the current sucking him into deep, black waters. He was becoming something he'd promised he'd never be ever again.

Weak.

He needed a life raft. He needed to get back in control. 

"I'll have some of the beef lo mein," Dean said against his neck.

Except with Dean, he wanted to lose control.

Drown.

Castiel swallowed hard and shoveled food onto the empty plate.

"Little more..."

Two simple words rumbled against the shell of his ear, vibrating down his bones, to his hard dick. With hands shaking, heart pounding, Castiel gave him more—"Almost"—and even more until Dean leaned forward, so close Castiel could barely breathe.

"I think I'll have some rice, too."

He stabbed a larger spoon in the tub of rice and slapped it on the plate. Quick sloppy globs of it dropping onto the counter—he didn't fucking care. He wanted this _over_. Dean's lips dragged along his ear, and Castiel arched his back, sucking in a fractured breath. 

"You like it messy, don't you?"

When Castiel didn't answer, Dean pressed his hips forward. The physical contact, his heat—Castiel lost control of the spoon as if he'd been electrocuted, and it clattered noisily on the counter. He fumbled to brace himself on the cool granite countertop, needing something, _anything_ , to ground him. To keep him from noticing how perfectly Dean's hard cock fit against his ass. Dean nosed the shell of his ear—and he nearly lost it, nearly came in his slacks.

"Don't you?"

Castiel slumped his head against the upper cabinets. "Yes."

God help him.

"Thought so." Dean smiled against his skin, then grabbed his plate. "Thanks for the food."

Dean dropped him like week-old garbage and left him in the kitchen. Castiel stared blankly at the counter, pissed, demeaned—and so goddamn aroused he'd come with a single touch.

Fucking Dean Winchester. He didn't know if he should tear him apart or let Dean fuck him until Castiel screamed his name.

He left the kitchen with a full plate and sat down at the head of the table, with Dean sitting catty-corner to him. Dean flashed him a smile that, under normal circumstances, would send blood rushing to his dick. He thought of anything else but Dean—work, his car—and lifted a forkful of food to his mouth. His nose crinkled in distaste. The smell alone was enough to twist his stomach.

"Well, this isn't what I had in mind." Dean speared a glob of mystery meat with his chopsticks.

"And what _exactly_ did you have in mind, Dean?" Castiel looked up to find Dean staring at him with a little smirk. Dean was still winning—and Dean knew it. 

Dean stabbed at another piece of something, then shrugged. "I don't know... eating out of the cartons like normal people."

" _This_ is what normal people do. They sit at a dining table, with _food_ on _plates_ —"

"Not where I come from."

Castiel clenched his teeth. "Where you came from—"

"—was a nice family home in Kansas before we came to this shithole. We ate out of cartons and pizza boxes and drank beer out of cans. Don't pretend you know where I come from."

"And I suppose your childhood was the pinnacle of _perfection_."

"Didn't say that, Cas. Far from. But it sure wasn't pretentious," Dean said, grabbing and holding up a silver fork.

"Try being more pretentious. It'd do you good."

"Try living a little. You wouldn't be such an asshole."

"If you looked up from your place in the dirt, you'd see I'm living quite well," Castiel shot back.

"You're a giant bag of dicks, you know that?"

"So are you."

"Good." Dean popped a dumpling in his mouth. "Glad we have one thing in common."

Dean smiled lopsidedly, one cheek stuffed like a chipmunk. He'd gone for charm and humor, and Castiel gave him a scowl for his efforts. They went back to their food and didn't say another word. Castiel stole a glance at him over their metaphorical chessboard, gauging him as an opponent. All he wanted to do right then was strike back at Dean for coming here, intruding, and making him lose control. He went through his available moves, looking for holes in Dean's defenses. Searched his eyes for it, his handsome face. What was his weakness?

"Sam," Castiel blurted out. Surprise registered on Dean's face and Castiel smiled, easing back into his chair. "How is he?"

"Good," Dean said quickly. "Real good. Reacting well to treatments. He loves it there."

Dr. Mills had used the word _combative_ in her call this morning, said Sam hadn't been reacting to treatments at all, that he'd been caught trying to escape several times. Sam didn't love it there. He hated it. Sam wanted to go home.

Dean knew that, too.

"Does he? That's good news." Castiel slipped a forkful of rice in his mouth. His eyes never wavered from Dean. "The drugs... I've been wondering how Sam got into them in the first place. Weren't you there for him?"

It was a barbed question, risky and ungraceful—so very uncharacteristic of him. His resentment made him sloppy, yet when Dean flinched, Castiel couldn't help but smile as if he were the devil buying another soul. Dean rolled a piece of sweet and sour chicken around his plate, looking down at it. Painfully. Like it was the culmination of everything that'd gone wrong in his life. Castiel waited. When Dean finally looked up, noticed his face, his smile, he said, "Yeah, no. Not gonna talk about this with you."

Castiel shrugged like it didn't matter one way or another if Dean did or not. He sipped at his shitty wine, then said, "Had I had a brother, I would've been there for him," just loud enough for Dean to hear. Much angrier than he'd intended.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Dean snapped, shooting him a dangerous look. 

"Where were you when Sam got into drugs, _Dean_?"

"Around," Dean growled. "What're you trying to get at? You saying this is my fault?"

Castiel notched his chin up. "The role of an older brother—"

"I'm gonna to stop you right there, Cas," Dean growled again, beautifully angry. "What the _hell_ do you know about being a brother, huh?" Castiel opened his mouth— "Shut up. You have your head so far up your own ass that even if you _did_ have a brother, you wouldn't have given a shit. I did everything I could for Sam—"

"Did you, Dean?"

Dean eased back in his chair, his face flushed red. He leaned forward again and pointed a finger at him. If it'd been a gun, Dean would've shot him without a second thought. "You don't know shit," he said finally. Dean stared at him, jaw clenched enough to break teeth. "You know what? I'm not going to sit here and defend myself. I don't have to. You don't know the first fucking thing about being a brother, do you? Thank God you don't have one. And if you do, I sure as fuck feel sorry for him."

Dean's words cut him jagged like a serrated knife, severing his patience, his composure, with a _snap_.

"You just can't face the fact that you're a failure in _everything_ _you do_ , Dean," Castiel hissed. "What has your life amounted to? The answer is _nothing_. You're a disappointment to your family. Worst of all, you failed _your brother_!"

Dean slammed his hand on the table. Silver cutlery rattled, red wine rippled in glasses. Castiel cringed when Dean raised his fist only to set it back down, fingers curling around a knife. For a second, something murderous flashed over Dean's face, and it chilled Castiel to the bone. Then, it disappeared, replaced by a myriad of emotions that changed too quickly to categorize. Every freckle was brought into sharp focus suddenly by a window of light on his face. Dean angled the knife, looking into its shine. God, he was beautiful—and irritatingly _calm_. 

"You know what Cas? I know what kind of person you are, what you're like. How you got to be how you are. Don't take a genius to figure out you probably got a shitheel for a Dad, or a family that felt you weren't ever good enough. You know what I got that you don't? A family that loves me—and that's something you can't buy. So. Whatever game you're playing? It ain't working."

Castiel unhinged his jaw to respond—"Shut up and drink your goddamn wine"—and exhaled harshly, pushing his plate back in defeat. Dean took the napkin from his lap and tossed it on the table. They watched each other, frozen in a stalemate that neither would surrender to. Castiel sipped his fucking wine. Dean drummed his fingers on the table. Then, Dean's body language changed. His shoulders slumped a little, his eyes on his half-eaten food. He played with the edge of the napkin, kneading it between his fingers like he was nervous. Like he didn't know what to do. He was the new kid on a playground full of bullies.

Dean took a deep breath. "I did what I could for Sam."

"Dean..."

"No, you started this shit. Now, I gotta clear the air." Dean dropped his eyes to the silver knife again. Swallowed hard, even drank a bit of wine before saying, "Look. As much as I hate it, you're right. I failed him. I should've been there for him. It was just... too fucking hard, okay? We'd just lost Dad. And, Sam and I—we never healed from Mom's death either." He gripped the knife harder. "When I got out of jail... I had my own shit to deal with. I didn't want to chase after Sam. I didn't want to deal with his shit; hanging out with the wrong people, getting into trouble. So... I left."

"Because it hurt to see him become you."

Dean frowned. "Yeah, except I'm a loser, a nobody, and Sam's Sam. He's a good kid. A smart kid, and he's going to have a future." Dean clenched his jaw. "I'll fight for it every goddamn second of every day for the rest of my life. I owe him that much."

They both went quiet, and the silence chipped away at Dean, making him fidget and throw nervous glances Castiel's way. Vulnerability made Dean even more beautiful, potent. Deadly. A terminal illness from which he'd never recover.

"You're doing the best you can, Dean," Castiel whispered.

Dean looked up at him and the severity of his expression lifted. He was sunny on a day that called for rain. "Thanks, Cas. And hey..." He smiled and it was warm. "I didn't mean what I said. You would've been a great brother."

He winced and tried not to think of brothers, of any familial ties at all. The details of mergers flew through his brain, calculations and dates, money and profits. Castiel got caught up in it and didn't notice that Dean had been staring, was staring _still_. Like he'd asked a question and he hadn't heard it.

"What?"

"I asked if you wanted dessert."

Castiel narrowed his eyes. "I didn't think you had brought one."

"I didn't," Dean said, a mischievous smirk on his face. "I have something else in mind."

He didn't have a chance to ask before Dean was up and out of his seat, coming closer, as dangerous as a tidal wave. Pushing his chair back. Damaging his floors. Castiel shot a look to the hardwoods—no marks—then back up to find Dean on his knees right in front of him. His intake of breath was urgent, and he held it as Dean reached for his belt. Castiel searched his face. The twinkle in his eyes, the smirk on his lips; all living testaments to the sinful things he had planned. Except Castiel wouldn't play his game. Not this time. 

Not ever again.

Castiel leaned his elbow on the arm of his chair, balancing his chin on thin fingers. His message was simple: he wasn't interested in what Dean had to offer. Dean took it as a challenge—Castiel could see it in his eyes—and unbuckled the belt, slipping it out of his slacks' loops. Those devious hands started running over his thighs, up and down, slowly, with every intention of breaking him apart. It almost worked. Dean almost won.

Almost.

Dean's hands reached the innermost part of his thigh, thumbs brushing against his balls. He would've let out a moan if it wouldn't have been a white flag in this little war. When Dean rubbed his flaccid cock, Castiel bit his cheek hard and thought of other things. The Draper-Larkin acquisition. The way Anna had cried when he'd fired her last week. The sad excuses for assistants who'd applied to the ad. Miraculously, his dick appreciated the bigger picture and didn't react to Dean's attention. Then, Dean got desperate and went in for the kill. 

Dean dropped his head and mouthed Castiel's cock.

_Fuck_.

What he wouldn't give to just... let go. Half of him begged to let Dean have his way, to let him win, while the other part of him, all business and no pleasure, screamed at him. He was caught in the middle with Dean's hot lips working over his slacks, searching for life in his all-but-dead cock. Castiel let himself enjoy his heat for a moment, locking bored eyes with Dean's, sex-blown and pleading, before grabbing Dean's hair. He jerked him back at an uncomfortable angle and brought him close, close enough to kiss. "It's time for you to leave."

Dean smiled. It was wide and smug. Irritatingly shit-eating.

He followed Dean to the front door and exhaled in relief when Dean stepped out into the hall.

"Well, I had a great time, Cas," Dean said, practically glowing.

"Thank you for the dinner and wine," Castiel returned flatly. "And if you ever think of doing it again"—he smiled—" _don't_." 

Dean stopped the door before it slammed in his face. "What? I don't get a kiss after the lovely date we've just had?"

Castiel frowned. "This wasn't a date, _Dean_."

"Well, just in case it was..."

He glowered at Dean and forced the door closed, standing there stupidly before peeking out the peephole. Dean smiled at the door, then turned and walked away, out of sight. There'd been an unmistakable bounce to his step. Triumph on his face.

In the wake of Dean's absence, he was alone. Nothing but his huge, luxurious apartment to keep him company—and the _raging_ hard-on in his pants. He thundered into the master bedroom, into the bathroom and stripped down to bare skin. He turned the shower to _scalding_ and stepped inside, squirted shower gel into his hands and grabbed himself without mercy. With the hot, hot water spraying on his skin, he jerked off to Dean's smirk, the dangerous glint in his eyes, and the missed opportunity of getting blown by him. Those thick lips around his cock, sucking hard, mouth uncomfortably full... 

Castiel growled out Dean's name as he came, muscles turning to liquid. He slid down the tiles, to the floor, out of breath and exhausted. Dean Winchester had slipped under his skin.

Dean had a habit of staying where he wasn't wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm horrible at knowing what to tag for. If you feel there's a tag missing, please leave a comment with your thoughts. Thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> (And thank you to SurlyCat and avyssoseleison for the suggestions so far!)


	6. Chapter 6

**DAY: 24**

Two weeks had gone by without incident. Castiel called on Dean when time allowed—often in the early morning hours—fucked him, then went on with his life, and Dean behaved. That was how it was supposed to go. Everything was normal, on his terms, and he was in control. Just how he wanted it.

Castiel sat in his boat room and held a tiny, unfinished hull in his left hand and an even tinier paintbrush in his right. Notes of a violin swept through the room like a prima donna ballerina, elegant and strong. The music pulsed through him, and he arced a strip of green over the sanded wood as long and bold as the sound of the instrument. Carefully, he painted another arc, then another, filling in color where there was none, making something out of nothing. Here, alone with his boats, wood, and a paintbrush, he was in his element. Calm. Collected. Exactly how he wanted to be. Nothing and no one to distu—

His cell phone rang.

He ignored it, favoring the small boat with another stripe of green. The phone rang again, and again he ignored it, nerves fraying at the ends. It nagged at him until he gently set down the paintbrush, the tiny boat beside it, and stabbed his hand into his pocket. The phone rang and vibrated, turning into a vicious living _thing_ when he looked at the screen. That fucking name... his phone had turned into a stinging _viper_. All he wanted to do was kill it.

He begrudgingly answered the call instead. 

"Charles."

A bitter laugh came through, the sound of it curling around his lungs and constricting them until he had trouble breathing. Even the memory of that voice had the weight of a wrecking ball, and it would crush him if he let it. Castiel took a deep breath, but instead of relaxing, his body revolted. His stomach churned and twisted, and his insides grew tight, tighter, his head spinning, spinning. He clenched his teeth, fingers balling into fists.

"Charles..." the voice repeated, amused. "I wish you'd call me 'father' like a _normal_ son."

"What do you want?"

"Can't I just call my—"

"You're drunk."

It was in the slur of his voice, in the sound of swirling ice clinking against glass. As if in confirmation, Charles sipped noisily, and the horrid stench of whiskey practically oozed through the phone, smelling of bad childhoods and drunk, deadbeat fathers. 

When Charles didn't answer, Castiel pinched the bridge of his nose. "You and Mother had a fight."

"Oh, so she's _Mother_ and I'm Charles," he bit back. "Typical." There was a moment of silence, then a long drawn-out sigh. It sounded like it'd come from a horrible monster, not a human being. Castiel waited when he should have hung up. Then Charles finally said, "It might be for real this time."

"You've been saying that since I was a child. Bother me when the divorce papers are signed."

If conversations had a temperature, this one would've dropped ten degrees. The silence on the other end was an icy black hole, sucking him in, drowning him in uncertainties. Any topic of conversation wound up being a minefield of anxiety and pain. Every time Charles opened his mouth—

"When are you going to find a wife and have kids?"

"Never, thanks to you and Mother," he said icily. "You didn't provide a stunning example of marriage or child-rearing from what I remember, Charles. And in case you've forgotten, I'm gay."

" _Still?_ "

Castiel seethed at the disgust in his voice. "Yes. _Still_."

"I keep hoping you'd grow out of it."

"I'm _forty_ ," Castiel hissed.

"Then, it's time to grow up and be a real man, Castiel," Charles snapped, "Stop breaking your mother's heart and give her a grandchild."

With every word, Charles' voice grew louder, and Castiel was a boy again, cowering in his father's shadow. The wire around his lungs tightened, horrible and incessant, and Castiel found it even harder to breathe. His heart pounded ruthlessly in his chest, his head _pounding_... he was spiraling out of control...

"I wonder how Jimmy would've turned out."

That name was a gunshot to his chest at close range. Castiel closed his eyes against the pain and gripped the phone in his hand until his fingers hurt. His brother's memory slowly crushed him, blackness descending around him on all sides. Somehow, he yanked out what little strength he had left, swallowed hard and said, "We'd know if you hadn't killed him."

" _CastieI_." His name sounded evil, disgusting. "I told you, I lost control of the car—"

"You were fucking _drunk_!" he screamed, letting loose his anxiety, his fear—how much he _hated_ his fucking father. "Don't fucking call me again unless you have something useful to say."

He killed the call and held the phone tightly in his hand. In and out, in and out... he took in short, aborted breaths, trying to settle his nerves, his stomach, and prevent this... fucking panic attack from taking him prisoner. _Breathe in and out, nice and easy_... his childhood psychiatrist, Donna had said. Except it wasn't working. Not this time. The squeal of the tires, the crunch of metal, the screams—the memories of that night stole the breath from his lungs, burning them. He couldn't breathe... fuck, he couldn't breathe...

Head spinning, body out of his control, he dropped the phone and leaned over his hobby desk, sweeping an arm across it. The tiny boat with its green hull tumbled away, the wet brush staining his fingers, hands, and wooden desk while he fumbled for something, _anything_. He pulled out a notebook with shaking hands and opened it. The pages held the scribblings of a madman, letters that didn't look like letters, words that held no meaning. He grabbed for a pencil and tested his abused lungs, trying to breathe. They came in erratically, slowly, and he gasped with the struggle. 

With everything he had, he willed his hand to move and began writing. He wrote lists until his fingers bruised, until the memory of that night blurred between bullet points, shopping and to-do lists, details he needed to paint, sketches of boats he'd make. After two hours, sheets of paper with splotches of green littered the desk, the floor, and his breathing had normalized. He shouldn't have taken that call. He shouldn't have— 

He leaned back in his chair and took in a deep breath, filling his lungs to capacity. Again. Another. He ran his fingers through his hair. The floor, his desk—everything was a mess. He'd have to start over on his boat, clean up the green paint, wash the little brush... 

He exhaled harshly and rolled his eyes to the ceiling. As it always did, the bright red photo album on the top shelf caught his attention and held it firm. He wanted to ignore it, but couldn't. He needed to see something else than the memory Jimmy's crumpled body in that goddamn car that had always, _always_ smelled like alcohol. 

Castiel stood and grabbed it, taking it down from the shelf before sitting down again and opening it up to a well-worn page. There, on the left pane, was his favorite photograph of him and Jimmy. Identical twins, only seven years old, sitting on the old wooden steps that led to the family's dock. Their arms were thrown over each other's shoulders, both grinning the same goofy grins, different teeth missing. In his hand, his childhood self held a tiny wooden boat that Jimmy had made him for his birthday. It was green. Perfect. Still the same after all these years, there up on the top shelf, with its faded green paint and uneven lines. The best boat in the whole goddamn room.

He looked down at the photo again and ran a fingertip over the two identical smiling faces. They were happy back then, him and Ji—his doorbell, repetitious, _frantic_ , dumped him back into his boat room, his home in New York City. He growled low and shot up, replacing the photo album on the shelf. Being disturbed wasn't usual. Security always buzzed first if someone was visiting, and he wasn't expecting anyone. No alarms. No fire.

At his front door, Castiel peeked through the peephole. Dean stood on the other side with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, looking right then left and practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. He should've been angry that Dean had shown up _again_ , uninvited, invading his home and privacy. Instead, he felt relieved.

 _Free_. 

Dean banged on the door—"Come on, Cas. Open up!"—and gave him a nervous smile when Castiel did just that. "Let me in, Cas."

Castiel looked him over quickly and frowned. "I didn't call for you, Dean. We have an arrangement."

"Yeah, well, sometimes arrangements have consequences," Dean said, shooting a look down the hall. Castiel looked too and saw nothing. "Listen, the deal was when you called, I'd come, no questions asked, right? Well, sometimes you call when I'm supposed to be working."

"Get to the point, Dean."

"I got fired, okay?"

"I don't see how this is my—"

"Look, I'm gonna bottom line this for you. I've got no job. Hell, dude, I lived above the restaurant, okay? You know what that means? I got no place either," Dean hissed, shooting another look down the hall. "I need your help. Let me stay here for a few days."

"Absolutely not."

"Cas, come on! I'm desperate here." Dean vibrated with nervous energy. "I'll make a deal with you. Whatever you want, just give me five days. Five days, Cas. That's it."

His brain rolled over the possibilities and consequences before he could stop it. Five days with Dean Winchester... a loud-mouthed, insouciant rebel with an Apocalypse of noise, chaos, and untidiness riding behind him. Take-out cartons every night, boots where they shouldn't be, the _hard_ long fucks—

"Dude, it's just five days. Not the end of the goddamn world."

Castiel looked at Dean, narrowing his eyes, and opened his mouth before his brain knew what he was doing. "Five days. Your legs spread whenever I want it."

He wasn't thinking with the right head.

"I'll take my chances with the goddamn streets," Dean spat.

"Good-bye, Dean."

Castiel slammed the door in his face, bringing his eye to the peephole again. Dean stood in the hall, looking down, his jaw clenched as if the fate of the entire world depended on him. He watched Dean seemingly war between his dignity and nights on the streets. Smiled when Dean shot an urgent glance down the hall, and then bang on his door. "Open up, you son of a bitch!"

He opened his world to Dean again. Cool and collected, as always.

"One fucking time, alright?"

"No. Twice. _At least_."

Heavy footsteps echoed in the stairwell. Dean whipped his head in that direction. The timing was perfect.

Castiel struck.

"Think about it. Your very own bed to sleep in... Food. Warmth. A wide-screen TV... Most men would kill for the opportunity I'm giving you, Dean. Don't be stupid."

Footsteps and voices got louder. The Apocalypse of noise and chaos.

"You're a fucking asshole. You know that, right?"

Castiel smiled.

"Twice," Dean said. "But, I swear to God, you'd better be fucking gentle."

Dean tried to push his way in, but Castiel stopped him, palm on his chest. "How'd you get past the front desk?"

"Does it matter?" Dean hissed. Castiel gave him a look. "I slipped right by it, okay?"

"Security?"

"Didn't see 'em."

"They're chasing you right now, aren't they?"

"Maybe."

Castiel lowered his hand and backed up. Like a thief running away from the cops, Dean slunk in and slammed the door closed before peeking out the peephole. Dean must've seen nothing because he breathed a sigh of relief, turned, and folded against the door as if it were the only thing that could give him support. Castiel stood in the grand foyer, hands clenched into fists at his sides. He couldn't decide whether letting Dean in had been wise or incredibly, irrationally _stupid_. But then Dean smiled at him, and it was like a gentle southern breeze. Suddenly, he didn't care one way or another. Let common sense be damned.

"No wonder the world is at your feet," Dean said, leaning back like he had no care in the world.

Castiel tilted his head to the side.

"I don't think you realize how... fucking beautiful your smile is, Cas. Lights up your whole face"—He was smiling. _Had been_ smiling. Castiel let a deep frown murder it—"I'll make you smile every day if you let me." Dean winked.

Castiel rolled his eyes, letting the charm and southern drawl roll down his back. Dean chuckled and made a move to leave him in the foyer, duffel bag in tow, but stopped and turned when Castiel cleared his throat loudly. Castiel looked down, at his dirty boots, then up to his face. It was Dean's turn to roll his eyes, drop his duffel bag, and carefully remove his boots, lining them up next to another pair of shoes. Bare toes and holey socks again. 

Castiel let out a harsh sigh, then said, "Like we agreed. Five days. No more. You can take the guest bedroom down the hall. Remember not to touch anything. Keep quiet, don't bother me unless I need you"—Dean opened his mouth—"and don't question me." Castiel pointed at him. "Five days."

"Yes, sir."

Castiel slipped out of the foyer, past Dean, and into the hall, leading them toward Dean's _temporary_ bedroom. They stopped in front of the door, and Castiel motioned for Dean to go in. With his duffel bag slung over his shoulder, Dean went inside and looked around, letting loose a low whistle. "This is nice, Cas."

"Better than the streets," Castiel reminded him. 

Their bargain shimmered over Dean's face. That cocky smile disappeared, and Dean nodded solemnly, then shot him a subdued smile. "Yeah. Better than the streets."

Castiel nodded and left him there, closing the bedroom door behind him. It opened a second later with Dean there, suddenly too close, chest broad and warm. Castiel took a deep breath and caught a whiff of sandalwood, leather, and whiskey. He wondered if Dean had drank any before he'd shown up, what kind it had been. What it tasted like on his lips... Dean smiled at him, slow and easy, trailed fingers along his arm God knows why, and turned down the hall. In the opposite direction of his new, _temporary_ bedroom. That bow-legged swagger... it told him Dean would bring the world to its knees. He watched him, unable to stop, then blinked.

"Where are you going, Dean?"

Castiel swore under his breath when he didn't get an answer. He stomped down the hallway to find Dean in the living room, sitting on his white leather couch. TV on. Feet _up on his coffee table_. His bare toes wiggled a silent _fuck you_ from out of their holes.

He growled low in his throat. "What are you doing?"

Dean smiled up at him. That fucking shit-eating— "Relaxing. Want to join me?"

An explosion and a rain of bullets from his state-of-the-art surround sound startled him. He glared at the TV, then down at Dean. "The volume is too loud. You're supposed to be _quiet_."

"I'll lower it," Dean said smoothly.

"Your goddamn feet are on my coffee table."

Dean moved them without arguing. Castiel narrowed his eyes at him. They had a silent stare-off, Dean never once letting that smile slip. The fucker knew what he was doing—seeing just how far he could bend the rules before Castiel snapped. Dean smiled a little bigger, as if to tell him he was right.

The deplorable state of his socks was at the tip of his tongue when the doorbell rang again. Castiel huffed loudly, stormed to the front door, peered through the peephole, then opened it. 

There stood Alastair, Head of Security, jaw clenched. "I'm sorry to disturb you, Mr. Sant'Angelo," his voice was airy, like something from a horror movie, "But have you seen anyone... suspicious on the premise?"

Castiel slanted his eyes over his shoulder, toward the living room. "I'll let you know in five days."

He shut the door in his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm horrible at knowing what to tag for. If you feel there's a tag missing, please leave a comment with your thoughts. Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> (And thank you to SurlyCat and avyssoseleison for the suggestions so far!)


	7. Chapter 7

**DAY: 27**

He stared blankly at the full-length reflection of himself. The perfectly tailored suit, his blue silk tie in a neat knot around his neck. The brand-name leather briefcase. His Rolex. Everything about him shouted order, sophistication. Power. Money.

So how had his life literally fallen apart?

The elevator dinged to a halt on his apartment's floor. The doors opened and his alter ego slid away, tucked into dark slits going nowhere. When he stepped out into the empty hallway, he debated retreating back the way he'd come. Going back to work, maybe, drowning his compulsiveness in stacks of paper. After a moment of doubt, he trudged on instead and stopped in front of his apartment's door. Hesitant to barge in even though he owned the place, even though he'd been living there for years.

Castiel drew in a tight breath, walked in, and closed his eyes, shutting the door behind him. He didn't need to look to know that Dean's cowboy boots—filthy, _ugly_ —were on his white carpet again. That a muddy footprint stained the fine, expensive fibers. That he would have to have it steam cleaned _again_. 

He filled his lungs completely and let the air out slowly, then opened his eyes.

Cowboy boots. On the carpet. 

Another fucking stain.

Order and neatness no longer lived here. The four horseman of the Apocalypse—dirt, noise, clutter, and _Dean_ —had moved in.

Castiel clenched his jaw, toed off his dress shoes and lined them up with the rest on the grand foyer's tile. Dean's boots should've gone in the trash. They found a respectable place on the _other side_ of the small entry room instead; their dirt far away from his beautifully shined shoes. The mark on the carpet smiled at him, and he gave it a glare as he walked by.

The rest of the apartment wasn't much better. Every fucking light had been left on, the thermostat was set high enough to heat all of New York City, and the doors to all the rooms were open as if Dean had gone snooping in each one. _Again_. 

Three days of waking up to the TV with the volume set too high. 72 hours of dishes stacked up, unwashed clothes, and things _everywhere_. 4,320 minutes of Dean's... "charming company." 259,200 seconds of utter Hell.

In the kitchen, Castiel sighed sharply and whipped open the refrigerator. He rummaged for a bottled water, avoiding six-packs of El Sol, half-eaten food, and soda. A white box from Dominique Ansel's Bakery took up most of the bottom shelf, and apple cinnamon fingerprints dotted the lid. More of them peppered the sheen of the refrigerator's stainless steel door—

 _One, two, three, four_...

Silently counting to ten did nothing. He slammed the refrigerator closed just as hard and turned away, opening the water bottle, guzzling like he was intent on drowning his frustrations. It didn't work. Not when dirty dishes stared at him from the sink. Dishes that should be _in the dishwasher_. Not festering in their own filth. 

"Two more days," he said to no one.

48 hours. 2,880 minutes. 172,800 agonizing, messy, noisy seconds.

Castiel hovered over the kitchen sink. Multiple plates were coated with the same... apple cinnamon sludge that had been used as finger-paint on his fucking refrigerator door. He imagined Dean eating plate after plate of pie in front of the TV, volume rattling the walls, heat blazing, lights needlessly bright and wasting electricity. Kicking him out would be the highlight of his week, month even, and he began counting down the seconds.

172,500 to go.

He washed his hands and left the kitchen. In the living room, a pair of jeans, a shirt, and socks with fucking holes in them littered the floor in various stages of undress, leading to Dean's room down the hallway.

Castiel turned off the TV and let out a sharp sigh. He stood there for a moment, thinking. Gathering his composure, trying to calm the rising heat in his chest. Dean was taking advantage of him, and it burned him worse than being lied to. Lying he could handle. Someone being an ungrateful asshole, on _purpose_...

He clenched his hands into fists. It was six o'clock in the fucking evening. Dean's bedroom door was closed, which meant he was probably still asleep—and naked, if the clothes on the floor were any indication. Up all night, sleeping all day, Dean couldn't be bothered to pick up after himself, do his own laundry, or look for a job, and the thought made Castiel sneer. Eager to remind him of the rules.

Castiel removed his jacket and draped it neatly over the couch's armrest. He lay his vest beside it, his cufflinks left in a small dish on a lavish side table nearby, and moved toward Dean's room. Slowly, neatly rolling up his shirtsleeves. He edged the bedroom's door open, loosening his tie. 

There, on the bed, lay Dean, bed sheet up to his thighs, his long and lean body out on display. In the soft light, he looked like a god waiting to be dethroned. His cock was hard, perfectly straight against his toned stomach, and the sight of it made his own twitch in his slacks. He traded in Dean's body for the pillows on the floor, for the handmade quilt and duvet crumpled at the foot of the bed. 

It wouldn't take long to smother him. Five minutes, maybe. Six or seven at the most.

He stared down at him, clenching his jaw. His beautiful puzzle box, so infuriating, yet so—Castiel scowled, looking away from Dean if only to save his dignity. Little faces looked up at him from the nightstand. Dean's perfect family in that same creased photograph, with bright smiles on a sunny day before their world had gone to shit. Beside it stood a framed picture of Dean and the same blonde woman, his mother possibly, both grinning and hugging...

One, two, Castiel tipped the pictures over, facedown. Out of sight. He whipped the sheet back and Dean startled, blinking up at him with sleepy eyes. Dean smiled and it was beautiful on his face, full of boyish charm and sweet dreams. Dean yawned, stretched high above his head, then settled again. "Morning, Cas. Good day at work?"

"Morning? Morning was over _hours_ ago." Castiel glowered at him. "Not only did you sleep through it, you missed the afternoon, left your fucking boots on my carpet _again_ , dirty dishes in my sink, and shitty beer in my goddamn fridge. Not every single light has to be on, _Dean_ , and your clothes"—He took a deep breath—"are all over my fucking living room."

Dean blinked at his tirade and let an easy southern smile spread over his face, long and slow. Cocky. "I'm a guy, Cas," as if that answered for the mess. "Sue me."

"Sue you?" Castiel balked, voice quaking.

Dean had the audacity to grin, and Castiel stared at it with growing rage. _In and out, nice and easy_... He took in every breath with careful measure, passing them out of his nose. Again. Three more times. Gaining back control. While Dean's smile grew two shades brighter, Castiel took off his tie and tossed it on the pillow next to Dean's head. That irritating smile disappeared instantly—Dean knew where this was going. They both did.

"Turn over," Castiel said, unbuckling his belt.

"Rather lay on my back, if it's all the same to you, Cas," Dean drawled. He winked. "Let you do all the work."

Castiel studied him, taking his time with undressing. He slowly unbuttoned his shirt one by one and threw it aside, undershirt quickly following suit. The way Dean's eyes lit up and swept over his naked torso—there was desire there, something Castiel hadn't missed. Something else, too; an uncertainty, maybe. A clue that all of Dean's bravado hid a fear underneath the surface of his skin. That same uncertainty manifested in a gentle touch on his thigh, fingers barely skirting over slacks as if Castiel were too delicate to touch. Too precious. Someone Dean didn't deserve. It didn't stop him from undressing. Dean's unsure touches, the way Dean worried his bottom lip... 

Dean didn't want this. 

He didn't care.

Pants and boxers were long gone, forgotten. Castiel moved to the end of the bed, to better see him, all of him, from a head-on angle. Dean was stiff at first, legs and arms flat, shackled to the bed by nerves. Then something miraculous happened. Dean looked at him, smiled that boyish, mischievous grin, and bent his legs at the knees. Spreading them wide and open for him. The reaction was immediate; his half-hard cock filled, standing proudly and eagerly for Dean, as if it were putting on a show. Dean dropped his eyes to it, raised them up to Castiel again—and smirked, knowing full well that if Castiel didn't get his hands on him, he'd go out of his goddamn mind.

Taking the bait, Castiel knelt on the bed, crawling toward him, almost warily. Knowing too that, inch by inch, closer and closer, he was losing himself. Dean lay there like a wanton whore, and all Castiel wanted to do was touch him. Run his hands down those thighs, bow and worship at Dean's altar by sucking his cock and eating him out. Dean's cock spent a pearl of precome, and it took _everything_ in him not to lap it up like a dog. 

Suddenly, Dean let out a deep groan, back arching off the mattress. His voice was hoarse, throaty, when he said, "Yeah, Cas... just like that."

He'd taken himself in hand, pulling at his cock with long, hard strokes. Hadn't noticed until that second, until Dean started panting, lazily fisting his own erection, completely satisfied to watch each other jack off. He'd fucking come any second like this, with Dean watching him the way he was, letting out shuttered breaths like he couldn't handle the sight of him. Like it was too erotic, as if, soon, Dean would lose himself too. To make it more difficult, to tease him even more, Dean spread his legs wider and gripped himself harder, pumping faster.

"Turn over," Cas choked out. "I need you to fucking... _turn over_."

If Dean didn't, Castiel would do something he'd regret. Kiss him, maybe. Fuck him while Dean looked at him with those bedroom eyes. He couldn't afford getting wrapped up in everything Dean Winchester. He wouldn't survive.

Dean stopped palming himself but didn't turn over. As soon as Dean opened his mouth, as if to protest, Castiel grabbed the ankle on his left and yanked it over, bearing the side of Dean's gorgeous ass. Dean turned, as he was told, and his slightly sad, doe-eyed face was lost to him.

Castiel hovered over him, and Dean let him bind his wrists to the headboard with his expensive, blue silk tie. With Dean's back exposed, he was soon swept up in dark, bold lines, swirling and stretching over his skin like a breathless masterpiece. He suddenly didn't care about fucking him. He wanted to drown himself in shades of black and gray instead, follow and trace patterns until his home fell down around him. If he were another man, he'd kiss every detail, from intricate feather as real as a bird's, to the lines that slithered down his spine. He wanted to feel Dean's skin against his face, imagine each feather tickle his cheek, and forget _everything_.

He had to remind himself he wasn't that man. That he never would be.

Seconds stretched into minutes. Dean grew more and more tense, those beautiful lines twisting into something ugly. He wanted those delicate feathers back, not ruffled and on-end, but relaxed and simple. 

Castiel traced the detail of a feather with a fingertip, trying to gently smooth it out. Dean's body responded with a flinch, and his skin shuttered like it wanted to leap away from him. With a flat palm, Castiel ran his hand down Dean's back, his spine, thumbing frazzled feathers, soothing them with a light touch. Dean arched into it and let out a little noise that sounded like a whimper.

He added another palm, sweeping his fingers over both wings—one demon, one angel—to the tune of Dean's groan. Now, Dean was practically boneless, no longer tense, but _liquid_ , rubbing his ass against his groin. The friction made his toes curl and stole the breath from his lungs. His study of those perfect, beautiful lines faltered. Fingertips lost their rhythm and turned rabid, nails biting into Dean's back. Dean shot out a hiss and rammed his ass back into him, demanding, needy. Nearly desperate.

He pulled his hands away—" _Cas_... don't stop..."—and reached for the lube. Hard cock now wet, Castiel inched his palm up Dean's back and thumbed every vertebrae. He grabbed the back of Dean's neck and gave it a squeeze, once, twice, before fingers dug in—before he shoved his hips forward without warning or preparation.

Dean's yelp was gorgeous. 

Castiel gave Dean a few smooth, solid thrusts, hard enough to remind Dean of his place, but soft enough so he wouldn't break him. Dean's body accepted all of him, and Dean whimpered almost too quietly to hear, not yet having found his pleasure. Those choked-off grunts bled into soft groans at first, then breathless pants as Castiel slammed into him over and over again, fucking out his frustrations, his anxieties—his uncertainties. Dean took every one of them like he'd done this thousands of times; his tight eager hole gripping him, pulsing with the punishing rhythm he'd set. He wouldn't last long like this, not with Dean taking him like he was, calling out with a moan that sounded like surrender. Dean was so beautiful, so willing—he didn't want this to end. Not yet.

He stopped mid-stoke, and Dean let out a growl, protesting. Dean had gone from not wanting it to _demanding_ it, by thrusting his hips back, by spearing himself on his hard cock. Castiel gasped and jerked forward, bracing his hands on the wall. With abandon, Dean fucked himself on his dick, the slap of flesh-on-flesh obscene. Every thrust gave Dean more and more control, and he went wild with it, pounding back, driving him quickly to the edge. The smell of their sweat, their sex, the way Dean _took_ control—

"Stop." When Dean didn't, Castiel grabbed a hold of Dean's hair and yanked his head back. Hard. "I said _stop it_."

Dean breathed hard through his nose, more like a starved animal than a man. Though he'd stopped thrusting, Dean couldn't seem to stay still; circling his hips, adding friction when Castiel didn't want _any_. He couldn't come like this, not already, and Castiel slipped out of him. 

"Cas..."

It sounded more like a hiss than Dean's nickname for him. Castiel shut him up by dragging his thumb over Dean's abused hole, pushing it inside of him, out of him, while Dean whined for more. Again, Dean fucked himself on him, his thumb this time, his groans becoming deeper, more urgent, more needy for release. The headboard slammed against the wall with Dean's thrusts, his legs flexing under the strain, his whole body trembling, sweaty, and absolutely breathtaking. When Dean began mumbling, Castiel tuned in, desperate for every word.

"Cas... _please_... I—I need you."

A rush of air abandoned his lungs.

Castiel removed his touch and lined himself up, shoving his hips forward and splitting Dean in two. This time, Dean groaned filthy and eased himself back, hard cock buried to the hilt. Castiel let out a laborious breath, pulled back, then plunged forward. The headboard rocked against the wall. Dean yelped. They fucked until their lungs burned with the lack of oxygen, until the tie around Dean's wrists bit into his skin. There was a dent in the wall he needed to get fixed, and something had broken on the bed. He forgot everything when that beautiful rush came over him, when he found his climax and spilled into Dean. Thought of nothing when Dean shuddered, cried out, and ruined his high thread count sheets with his come. 

After the initial high, Castiel untied Dean's wrists and flopped over, completely spent and exhausted. Dean simply knelt there, in a half-hearted yoga pose, until he had enough strength to move. Beside each other on the bed, they stayed there, saying nothing. Just breathing.

They fucked again an hour later, exactly the same way; Dean accepting everything Castiel had to give him.

His second orgasm had been amazing.

Watching Dean limp around the apartment, cleaning up after himself—even better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm horrible at knowing what to tag for. If you feel there's a tag missing, please leave a comment with your thoughts. Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> (And thank you to SurlyCat and avyssoseleison for the suggestions so far!)


	8. Chapter 8

**DAY: 32**

Two days' worth of stubble shadowed his usually clean-shaven face. Castiel stared at himself in the master bathroom's mirror, running a hand down his chin and throat. It was a ritual he repeated every weekend; letting his beard grow out to replace any semblance of the man who lived to work on the weekdays. The man who'd brought himself up from a scared little boy to one who stood on top with money, power, and the world at his feet. 

Someone who'd mistakenly let Dean Winchester stay past his five-day allotment.

He frowned and dipped a fine-bristled brush in shaving cream, slathering it all over his cheeks, jaw, and neck. Day five had come and gone. Neither had spoken about it. Castiel hadn't told Dean to leave—and never had the courage to ask himself why not—and Dean never left. Dean was still _Dean_ with several appreciated— _forced_ —changes. The kitchen was no longer a mess every time he came home; clothes were never left on the floor; and the TV stayed at a respectable volume. He hadn't seen a stain on his white carpet in days, and Dean bought _sensible_ groceries with the money he'd given him. While many bad behaviors had been corrected, Dean still stubbornly hung on to a few: staying up all hours of the night with the TV on and sleeping until God knew when.

"Mornin', Cas."

Dean _still_ had a problem with personal space.

Castiel glared at him in the mirror's reflection. Oddly awake at 5:35 a.m. and annoyingly chipper, Dean grinned and winked at him before turning around, back to him. Castiel narrowed his eyes and said, "You haven't gone to bed yet, have you?"

"Nope."

Castiel let out a sharp sigh and stared daggers into Dean's back. He opened his mouth, about to remind Dean he had his own bathroom, when the unmistakable sound of a zipper cut through the air. A stream of piss hitting toilet water sounded just as obscene. His eyes blew wide open, mouth slightly agape in abject horror. When Dean zipped up, flushed the toilet and turned, Castiel clicked his jaw shut and tried to murder Dean with a look. Dean smiled that wolfish smile of his, which quickly grew into that _fuck you_ grin he always seemed to wear. It burned Castiel like it always did, and his fingers clenched the straight razor. 

Then, Dean dared fate.

He inched closer, and Castiel could feel his heat before Dean reached forward, bracketing his hips with forearms, hands on the long marble counter. Too-fucking-close for comfort. Castiel drew in an uneasy breath and held it, watching Dean watch him, green eyes tracing the line of his neck. Like he was meat and Dean wanted to bite into him. His hard, heavy cock was a reminder of his want for Dean, of how he couldn't get enough, no matter how fucking irritating Dean was, day-in and day-out. No matter... how breathtaking and sexy he was.

Dean ghosted his lips along Castiel's skin, almost close enough to touch. He drew a line up to Castiel's ear and smiled when Castiel's breath hitched. The smile was as sharp, cruel, and arrogant as a knife, cutting him deep with a flush of _need_. Castiel stared at him in the mirror, and Dean stared right back, stubborn and unyielding. His defiance, his rebellion, left Castiel wanting Dean to fuck him raw before the day even started.

Dean must've known, too. Made it even worse by leaning in, a hair's breadth from his ear, lips so close that Castiel closed his eyes in wait. 

"Have a nice day, sweetheart," was all he said. Then, he was gone.

Castiel opened his eyes to an empty bathroom and with a hard-on that refused to go away. 

***

That morning had dissolved into a restless work day, the thought of Dean popping up like a continuous nightmare. In client meetings, Dean would be fucking him over the conference table, and in his office under his desk, sucking his dick until Castiel came in his mouth. It threw him off his game; he lost a minor deal he shouldn't have, and an otherwise useless assistant survived another day. All day long, he thought of Dean—all because of that morning.

When the elevator stopped on his floor that evening, Castiel stormed to his apartment's door. He whipped it open and stepped in, eyes making a quick check over the particulars. Cowboy boots in a perfect line with the other shoes. No stain on the carpet. The TV wasn't blaring and the heat wasn't burning the skin off his body.

He made short order of putting his briefcase away, going to his room and undressing as much as he dared. His suit jacket, vest, and cufflinks were left in their usual places, neat and tidy, and Castiel found himself in the living room, staring at the back of Dean's neck. Like he had a sixth sense, Dean draped an arm over the back of the couch and looked at him. Really looked at him, dressed in a crisp, white dress shirt with two buttons undone, black slacks still hugging his legs and ass for all their worth. Something in Dean's eyes changed. They looked more... intense.

His honeyed smile made him hard.

"Good day at work?" 

Castiel narrowed his eyes, and Dean smiled even bigger, like he knew. As if Dean had pulled his little stunt earlier that morning for a reason. Maybe Dean _wanted_ Castiel to think about him all day. The thought made him clench his jaw in irritation because Dean's little ploy had _worked_.

He angled his face away sharply, taking in the wide expanse of the living room's view. New York City bustled, its lights his stars, the Empire State Building his moon. The City soothed him, and he took a deep breath, drawing from its strength. When Castiel looked back, Dean was very distinctively staring at his crotch. Like he was hungry, like there was something else on his mind other than the bullshit on TV.

He crossed his arms tightly over his chest. That brought Dean's eyes up, made him flush a little because he'd been caught in the act. Under Castiel's narrowed glare, Dean dropped his eyes, looking bashful for once. All of his confidence and bravado seemed to melt away, leaving a shy, and almost ashamed little boy in his place. Dean opened his mouth, maybe to apologize, then shut it, his lips a straight, plush line. There was something in his posture, then. Something more than just shame or guilt at ogling him. It was vulnerability. Dean had drawn in on himself and collapsed as if he were trying to disappear. 

"What is it, Dean?"

"Nothing."

"Liar."

Dean looked up at him through his eyelashes. Demure wasn't a look that fit him. "There's, uh, something I've been meaning to ask you. Just thought about it today... actually, been thinking about it for a while now."

Castiel almost took a seat, wavering with the weight of Dean's words. Whatever it was, it was important. It twisted up Castiel's throat like a snake, and he cleared it with a nervous cough. So uncharacteristic of him that it made him retreat inside and scold the child that lived there. The longer Dean's silence went on, the more he could feel cold fear coil in his gut. He thought of worst-case scenarios... Dean needed more money; he'd left a stain on the carpet in another room. He'd broken one of his favorite dishes.

Even worse... The deal was off. Dean was moving out.

"I... need a parking spot for my motorcycle," Dean blurted out. "It was my Dad's, and I can't lose it, Cas. It's—shit, it's one of the only things I've got left of him."

Castiel cut out a sharp breath, out of relief or disappointment, he didn't know. When he visibly relaxed, having been so fucking tight he would've exploded, Dean gave him an odd look. "What? Expectin' something else?"

He ignored Dean's wide grin and said, "I'll tell Alastair. He'll have your spot by the end of the week."

That soured Dean's expression. "Or he won't at all. I don't think that guy likes me, Cas."

"He doesn't like you because you don't belong here."

Before Dean could squawk at him, Castiel left for the foyer then came back, throwing a small package at Dean's face. Dean fumble-caught it, turned it over in his hands, then looked up at him. His face was a mixture of surprise and confusion. "Socks?" 

"To replace your old ones," Castiel deadpanned. "They have holes in them, which you haven't noticed for _weeks_."

Dean sat back in the couch as if he were floored. Truly touched. By _socks_. That breathtaking smile, the one that melted him to the bone, blossomed over his face. Dean looked down at the socks again, thumbing the designer label. "They look expensive."

"The best money can buy, so don't ruin them."

"I'll take care of them, Cas. Promise." Dean continued to look down at the socks with a small smile. Running a thumb over the label, the words, trying to poke his fingers inside to rub at the fabric. His smile grew wider then, switching from innocent and childlike, to downright devilish. Dean met Castiel's frown when he looked up. That smile didn't waver.

"What?" Castiel demanded.

"First gift in our relationship, Cas..."

Castiel felt his back rise up like a cat's would, his feathers ruffled like a rooster's before he pecked an intruder. His face reddened—he could feel that, too—and Castiel hissed out a breath and said, " _Dean_ , this isn't a relationship."

Shit-eating grin number 352...

He growled low in his throat and turned, meaning to stomp away, to his bedroom, his boat room—anywhere. He didn't get that far. Dean caught him by the wrist, making Castiel freeze. He should've jerked his hand away, as furious as he was, but didn't. Couldn't. Not with Dean thumbing the inside of his wrist and the sensitive skin there.

"Sit down."

Castiel couldn't help but comply, spelled to obey with those sweet little touches. Practically falling apart as soon as the comfort of the white leather couch took him in. He let out a quiet sigh, letting himself relax, Dean still at his side. He had let go of his wrist and just sat there, looking at him, a little half smile on his face. Castiel should've known Dean was up to something when he tossed the socks onto the coffee table. When he slid the coffee table closer to the TV to make a little more room between it and the couch.

Dean slipped down to the floor. On his knees.

Castiel stopped breathing.

"Dean..."

"Thoughtfulness deserves a little somethin' in my book." When Dean placed hands on his knees, Castiel jolted and a rush of tension wound him up as tight as an investor's wallet. "Hey, you've been real sweet to me, Cas. Letting me stay here when I've no right to, putting up with my bullshit... let me take care of you. Even if it's just this one time, alright?"

Castiel tightened his lips, but didn't answer. Dean rubbed his thighs with those hands, fanning out fingers and kneading the muscles. Every time Dean squeezed, Castiel tensed, and it earned him a disapproving look. So much so that when Castiel jolted for the third time, Dean downright scowled. "Relax, Cas. S'like you've never gotten a blowjob before."

It was Castiel's turn to scowl, as deep as his tension ran. Both of them began to wane under Dean's touch, hands smooth over his slacks, fingers pinching hungrily at his hips. Castiel took in a sharp breath to keep himself from groaning, but Dean took to it like a moth to flame anyway; fitting between his knees and leaning over. He felt the heat of Dean's mouth first, teasing over the material of his dress pants. Dean didn't make contact yet and hinted at what was to come with a huff of hot air. It made his cock hard, warm, wanting more than it was getting. Then Dean nosed his erection, too gentle a touch for Castiel to appreciate. 

Castiel hissed and arched his hips up, greedy, only letting up when Dean held down his hips against the couch's cushions. Out of frustration, Castiel tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling. Closing his eyes to avoid dwelling on the black spot amid white. The pressure Dean pushed on him was more now; nose, his face even, brushing over his cock in firm strokes. Once, twice... before it was gone completely. Castiel let out a shot of air, the sound of it urgent, needy, and he immediately regretted it. It showed weakness. Castiel Sant'Angelo wasn't a weak man.

Except that right now, with Dean, he was.

The tug at his waist indicated that Dean was done with teasing. Dean pulled at his belt, unbuttoned and unzipped his pants, and leaned toward him again. There was heat before there was Dean's mouth, sweet little kisses peppered along his length. Castiel swallowed hard, his jaw tense. Dean knew to stop before Castiel needed to say anything, about not to kiss him, that this wasn't _that_ , that his gentle touches were a waste of effort. He wouldn't let this get more complicated than hard fucking. He would _not_ fall in love with Dean. He couldn't.

Dean mouthed the head of his cock through his boxers. His whimper died in his throat, but his hips shot upward again, reflexive and desperate. Showing how much he fucking needed this. Dean must've known it, too. He stopped wasting time and pulled down his pants, his boxers, down to his calves. Castiel was bare for him, skin against leather, hard cock flush against his stomach. He lifted his head up to look at Dean, watching him stare at it. Dean lifted his eyes to him, smiled and said, "Gonna make you feel good, Cas."

"Stop talking and _do it_ , then."

Dean's wink was his only warning before Dean took him in, _all of him_ , down to the root. Castiel kicked his head back with an audible groan, his vision nothing but the white ceiling and its dark spot. Dean's mouth was wet and hot, tight and eager. Dean slid his head back slowly, and it was incredible; hit him with rapid-fire strokes that left him gasping. Castiel dug his fingernails into the couch and resisted the urge to thrust, to fuck his mouth with all he had. He dared to lift his head up again. Dean's plush lips were stretched around his cock, the full length of it disappearing into his mouth over and over again. With another groan, Castiel flopped his head back, throat tight and raw with his panting. His hips jerked up, and his dick plunged deeply into Dean's mouth. There was a moment where Dean gagged, then it was over, his recovery almost effortless. Like he'd sucked cock for most of his life. Castiel imagined Dean on his knees in dirty bathroom stalls, in dirtier clubs, with men who'd had questionable intentions. Like him. All it did was drive him to thrust up again. This time, Dean took it with a groan of his own, fingers pinching his skin enough to hurt. Pain mixed with pleasure... it was his drug.

So was Dean.

That was before everything stopped _completely_. Dean pulled away from him, and Castiel shot him a glacial look. Dean was too busy sucking on his middle finger, giving it a bob or two, before that mischievous smile appeared on his face again. Down Dean went, sucking on his cock again, hallowing out his cheeks and making him shout. Castiel rested his head back, then nearly jumped off the couch when Dean slipped his finger inside him. He arched his back and hissed at the intrusion, the surprise threatening to shrink his erection to half-mast. Dean sucked fervently to make up for it, the finger inside him, completely still then _moving_. With each bob of his head, Dean slid the digit in and out, fucking him with it. Castiel arched his back again, for an entirely different reason; it felt so fucking good, he was going to split in two. The dark spot on the ceiling became nothing. His whole world was Dean Winchester, and he was going to shout his name any second.

Castiel pulsed his hips, fucking himself on both Dean's finger and mouth. His thrusts became erratic, out of control, his world tilting on the edge of oblivion. Dean moaned around him, and the sound vibrated down his cock to his balls, setting off a chain reaction he couldn't stop. He came hard in Dean's mouth, biting his own lip until he tasted copper. What would've been Dean's name came out as a feverish growl, and his whole body turned to rubber; formless and used. He slumped in the white couch while Dean wiped his mouth. Castiel wanted to kiss him, taste himself on Dean's swollen lips, experience what it'd feel like to... make things more complicated.

In the end, Castiel jumped up and barricaded himself in his bedroom. Afraid that, if he'd stayed, he would've acted on his temptation and started something neither of them could afford.

This was just fucking. Something he kept telling himself until he drifted off into a fitful sleep.

***

3:32 a.m.

Castiel glared at the clock as if it'd woke him up. He tossed and turned until the blankets were wrapped around his feet, until it was too hot to sleep at all. The entire world seemed to be against him sleeping. He was hungry, he had to take a piss. Castiel sighed sharply into the pillow and just laid there. The TV was on in the living room again.

Dean was awake, too.

With a low growl, Castiel sat up in the bed, rubbing his face with his hands. He stared blankly in the darkness before standing, felt blindly along the walls until he found the bathroom. He took care of business, then left, and wandered out into the hall, following the flashing white of the TV. Someone gasped obnoxiously and he heard Dean laugh a little, a sleepy noise that almost lifted his mood. 

In the living room, Dean was sprawled out on the couch, blanket over him, arm tucked under a pillow supporting his head. Castiel turned his eyes away in time to catch a woman, in full dramatics, launch an open-palmed slap. Dean gasped a little. At the TV or at him standing there, he didn't know. Castiel angled his head, and Dean was looking right at him.

Even illuminated by the TV, his smile was beautiful. It was the brightest thing in the room.

"Can't sleep?" Dean asked.

Castiel shot out a sigh through his nose. "No."

"Want to watch Dr. Sexy with me?"

"Dr. who?"

"No, wrong genre. Dr. Sexy, M.D." When Castiel gave him a quizzical look... "Best medical drama on TV? Won a buncha awards? Nothing? Come on, Cas."

"Some of us work, Dean. Not watch..."—Castiel turned back to the TV when someone screamed—"TV shows with questionable acting."

"You know what? I'm gonna pretend you didn't just say that." Then, Dean added, mumbling, "Acting's just fine."

Castiel opened his mouth to argue—"Shh! Here he comes."—then shut it. Dean sat up a little bit and leaned forward, suddenly intense and staring at the TV like nothing else mattered. He looked too. A dark-haired man sauntered onto the screen with a smile as devilish as Dean's. The female characters stepped back, gasping, fanning themselves, acting utterly ridiculous over this man wearing scrubs and a long white doctor's coat. The camera panned down slowly to show the length of him, and the—

"Cowboy boots?" Castiel balked.

Without taking his eyes off the screen, Dean said, "Yeah. It's what makes him sexy."

Castiel rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. He watched Dean's man crush berate another doctor over a botched surgery, then make out with a good-looking female doctor in the stairwell. Before he knew it, Castiel was sitting on the couch's armrest, mesmerized. It had a certain... charm. And Dr. Sexy was, well, sexy.

Halfway into the show, Dean paused it, and Castiel almost protested. Dean had a mischievous look on his face when he left the room, and Castiel didn't have the energy to ask. Five minutes later, Dean came back with a bowl of buttered, salted popcorn and set it down between them. Castiel cast Dean a long-suffering look. Dean winked.

They shared the bowl silently. Their fingers brushed once or twice when the popcorn had gotten low. That night, as the sun peeked over New York City's skyscrapers, Castiel fell asleep to Dean's snoring, right before they revealed the identity of Dr. Piccolo's "baby daddy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm horrible at knowing what to tag for. If you feel there's a tag missing, please leave a comment with your thoughts. Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> (And thank you to SurlyCat and avyssoseleison for the suggestions so far!)


	9. Chapter 9

**Day: 35**

His whereabouts didn't register immediately. They came together slowly, confusing like a pile of puzzle pieces without a picture guide. Shadow-darkened walls bled into a ceiling of the same sickly shade. Ghost-white curtains stood stiff and still, haunting the large window. Lights beyond them. Blinding him. Castiel blinked a few times. He was comfortable and warm despite the odd buzzing sound nagging at his ear. He turned his head and narrowed his eyes at the startling brightness. It was his phone. 

Charles was calling him.

His life rubber banded and reality snapped into place. His bedroom. His apartment. New York City humming outside. Dead weight like a sack of bricks sunk into his stomach. He felt as if he needed to take a shit because of the nerves and anxiety twisting his colon. His throat went dry. His chest tightened. 

The little boy inside his head let out a quiet sob. 

Castiel swallowed hard, then grabbed the phone. His fingers trembled, his thumb blurry as it hovered over the _answer_ button. The part of his brain that should've been in control told him to decline it. Go back to bed. Pretend Charles had never called. But what if his mother had fallen ill? What if this truly was important?

The other end of the line was quieter than usual when he accepted the call. He expected a quick, cutting retort or accusation in way of greeting from his deadbeat father. _Something_ other than the sound of breathing. It was heavy like a soaked blanket, shaky as if Charles were holding back a whiplash of anger. Castiel found himself breathing against him, listening, then losing his patience. "Charles," he hissed. "It's 3:30 in the morning."

The devil laughed. It was airy. Cold.

"You got what you wished for, _Castiel_." His tone cut across his neck like a blade. "Your mother is divorcing me."

Castiel pulled the covers up over his shoulders as a chill ran down his spine. _Tread lightly_ , his mind cautioned. 

He threw caution to the wind.

"So. After some-odd 30 years, she finally realized you killed her son."

The phone line went silent. It crept up the back of his neck as it always had when he was a child. He remembered that silence, the deadly quiet before his father laid into him, with words so cutting, so brutal, Charles never had to lay a hand on him. His words had done more damage than thousand punches ever could.

"How dare you, you worthless little faggot," Charles hissed. "What happened to my sweet little boy, huh? The one who always showed me respect?"

Castiel choked as the slur ate away at his courage. Another panic attack loomed over him, gnawing on bones and organs, crushing him until he couldn't breathe. He fought the onset as best he could, his throat rough like sandpaper. "You killed him..." he finally rasped out, "that day, when you hit the other car. Jimmy. He was your sweet little boy." A tear rolled down his cheek. " _You killed him_."

Charles was quiet again. On the other side, a sloshing sound filled in dead space. Alcohol. Castiel could almost see Charles taking a swig, wiping off the sloppy excess with his sleeve. He'd seen it too many times for it not to be burned on the inside of his eyelids.

"You know," Charles said after a while, "not a day goes by where I don't wish you had died instead of him. At least then, I would've had a _normal_ son. Not some fucking _queer_."

"Charles," he whispered, almost pleading. Another tear shot down his face. Castiel tried pulling in a strangled breath through his abused lungs, and it burned, searing him from the inside out. What he wouldn't give to trade places with Jimmy, or go back in time and prevent it all from happening. He mourned the childhood and father he could've had. He mourned Jimmy. He bled out with the pain.

"Don't you... _ever_ call me again..." sounded disembodied. Distorted. Reality wavered in and out of his ears. 

If he had ended the call, he hadn't noticed. The phone flashed at him angrily, _Charles_ bold and imposing on the screen. At some point, he had laid his head down, blankets catching his tears. A sob threatened to break through his ribcage, and his lungs tightened under his anxiety's invisible fingers. Darkness closed in on him, leaving him victim to Charles' words. They cut at his skin over and over again, leaving him bloody, trembling. Without air. He was suffocating. Dying. 

He needed help.

Castiel stumbled out of his room, toward his only salvation. Soft light streamed out from Dean's room, and the sound of the TV led him there, to the open door... to Dean's beautiful face. Dean looked up and his eyes went wide.

" _Cas_ "—his nickname had never sounded so sweet—"are you okay?"

He stumbled in like someone had taken his leg. The TV went off, and Dean met him somewhere between desperation and a breath that wouldn't come. Warm hands bracketed his shoulders and it soothed him, but he still couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. He needed to be saved.

Lamplight filled the room. It was bright, golden, and cast a stunning shade of warm yellow across Dean's face. Castiel began counting his freckles, thinking it'd help distract him, but it didn't. He was too caught up in Dean's eyes, wide and black-green with concern. Like he honestly cared. Like this wasn't simply a deal between them.

 _Thirty freckles_... 

Dean ushered him to the bed with gentle hands, taking a seat beside him. Castiel counted forty freckles and tried to suck in a breath. It wasn't working. His panic attack was just getting worse.

"Talk to me, Cas." Castiel choked on his words instead. "Hey, you gotta breathe. In and out..."

_Nice and easy._

His breathing stuttered in his chest. Only when Dean began rubbing his arms did the flow of air begin again. He concentrated on Dean's touch, the warmth he created with his hands. Castiel filled his lungs to capacity for the first time since the attack, and Dean squeezed his shoulders. "That's it. Breathe for me. You're doing really great."

He took in another chestful of air, then another. The panic attack subsided, crawled into the dark hole from which it had come. Castiel was left with Dean touching him, hands gliding up his arms and down again in tender affection that he seemed to need more than air right then. His lungs burned from the abuse, and when his breathing completely normalized, he looked up at Dean with dead eyes. He could only imagine what Dean saw in him, in that moment. His red puffy eyes, his face flushed with the strain of his panic attack. Not someone who had always had everything under control, but someone weak. Damaged. _Human_. 

If Dean cared about his disheveled state, he didn't show it. Dean was too busy trying to decide where to put his hands. They had come up to rest on the caps of his shoulders. When a stray tear fell, Dean moved closer, hands sliding up to his neck, thumbs drawing soft lines along his jaw. Castiel had taught Dean to never touch him tenderly, so Dean searched his face, his lips, and took a safer approach, moving his hands back down to his arms again. Devoid of any feeling, like a brother might touch another.

Castiel felt loss for a second time.

"What happened, Cas? What's got you so shook up?"

Another unchecked tear sped down his cheek, and Dean thumbed it away. There was no judgment in his eyes, only the need to do more. To comfort him through touching, kissing, hugging— _anything_. It was so great, so intense, he could read it on Dean's face like words on paper. Dean gravitated toward him again, squeezing his shoulders as if to remind him Dean was still there. "Cas—"

"Dean... I need you to fuck me."

Sex would make him forget. Having Dean inside him, ripping him apart, would chase Charles' words away. The loss of Jimmy. _Everything_. But Dean's disbelief told him that sex wasn't on the table. His green eyes, wide and shocked, bordered on rejection he couldn't take. Dean opened his mouth, but Castiel, desperate, blurted out— 

"Please. I need you."

Those words had been his own undoing days before, and they worked in the same way, turning Dean's resistance into a fire that burned bright. Hot. Greedy. Castiel didn't feel guilt when he let Dean run possessive hands down his chest. Didn't feel anything but elation when Dean yanked his gray T-shirt up and over his head. He needed to be fucked hard, and Dean knew it, didn't try to kiss him or handle him gently. Where Dean would usually try to pepper light touches over his body, Dean tossed him face-down on the bed and ripped down his pajama pants to expose him to the world. In his moment of weakness, he wanted Dean, the real Dean, his soft illegal touches in lieu of the fingertips pinching his hips. 

His fingers carved lines down his back with blunt nails bared, pain like comet trails across his skin. Castiel winced when Dean spread him wide with the jerk of needy hands, thumb digging in without so much as a warning or a merciful dab of lube. Dean prepared him the way he'd always done, the way he'd been taught; briefly so it'd hurt more, so Dean's cock would stretch him impossibly wide, filling him to bursting. Pain had always been his escape—and it came when Dean shoved in quick and hard. Black spots danced behind his eyes and what precious air he'd saved up in his lungs shot out in a rush. Castiel cried out, but it fell on deaf ears. The first few times they'd fucked like this, rough to the point of abuse, Dean had tried to comfort him only to be rejected. Now, he didn't bother, jack hammering him until fresh physical pain was the salve to his emotional bruises. He didn't think about Charles or Jimmy. Just Dean. Just pain. Just the promise of sweet release.

Soon, pleasure evicted pain, moving in to settle comfortably in his bones. Castiel crushed his head into the mattress as Dean fucked him. Every noise he made was a shattered little thing, delicate whimpers, groans sounding more like sobs than anything else. He bled with each one, his emotional pain seeping out through his pores, his mouth, with the breaths he pushed out of his lungs. Unchecked. Out of control.

Dean must have noticed.

The pace slowed. Instead of hard and brutal, Dean slid in every inch of him tenderly, as if what he had in his arms was fragile, something to be cherished. Castiel moaned low, and it was the encouragement Dean needed. An arm snaked around Castiel's chest and held him tight, close, in an embrace that stole his breath away. With a gasp, a choked sob, he couldn't tell the difference, Castiel raised his head, letting Dean brush his nose against the side of his neck. He didn't think of the complications right then. Ignored the consequences as Dean laid a flat hand against his heart. Castiel interlaced their fingers and held tight as Dean fucked him, sweetly and slowly. Comforting him in the only way Dean knew how; by just being _him_. By caring for him when he didn't deserve it.

Their pace quickened as they got closer to climaxing. Castiel's focus orbited on Dean's lips, how close they were to his neck, centimeters from kissing him or brushing against his skin. Dean panted sharply in his ear, and even that was erotic, his low groan vibrating just beneath his earlobe. Castiel tightened his fingers in Dean's, so close to coming, silently begging for Dean to take a chance. The thrusts came even quicker, harder, and Castiel groaned again, this time without devastation. Dean whispered his name in his ear, and brushed his lips—

Castiel shouted as he came untouched, his whole body trembling and shuddering with the force of it. Dean growled deep and gave him one last shove of his hips, filling him up hot and wet. The strength in their arms and legs abandoned them, and they flopped in a heap, spent. Satisfied.

Full of... uncertainty.

Castiel took in a lungful of air and pulled his fingers away from Dean's. Suddenly, he felt uneasy all over. Dean carded fingers through his hair, and the instinctual feeling of violation spread through his skin. It didn't take Dean long to notice the change, and Dean rolled off him, taking up the far side of the bed. When Dean turned off the light, darkness closed in again. Dean's voice was the only thing that saved him. 

"You okay?"

"I'm fine."

But he wasn't. Sleep ate him up before regret did.

***

Castiel woke first to the light of morning, to confusion, aches, and warmth crowding his back. He hadn't gone back to his own bedroom last night, and was still in Dean's, nestled in thin sheets. Dean lay nearby, not quite touching, but near enough that his body heat radiated from him in waves. His proximity reminded him of his childhood dog, Chamuel, who had always lain on his floor, watching the door. Fiercely loyal. Protective. His best friend.

More than just physical aches vied for space. He turned away painful boyhood memories and moved as much as he dared, onto his back, studying Dean's profile as he soundly slept. Freckles dotted his face and seemed darker in the sunlight, giving him a look that was falsely innocent. Underneath was a man as mischievous as he was charming, incredibly sexy as he was unintentionally awkward, messy, and annoying. When Dean smiled in his sleep, Castiel's heart fluttered like a humming bird, and he knew then that Dean Winchester had slipped past his defenses.

It filled him with distaste. Not because Dean was Dean, but because he felt he'd sacrificed something vital last night, a key principle that had helped him survive over the years. _Don't complicate things_. After he'd lost Chamuel to old age, no more pets. Family photos hadn't graced his walls since Jimmy died. And after fraternizing with his accountant, Inias, he'd promised himself he wouldn't complicate his life with something more than just a quick fuck. No long-term relationships. _Ever_.

Castiel looked at Dean. He felt nothing but complication on top of complication. 

His eyes were drawn to his tattoos again. The swirling lines comforted him, and he began tracing them again, fingertip dancing along Dean's skin. It woke Dean up, and Dean turned his head toward him, bright green eyes flicking down to his arm. When their eyes met, Dean smiled. It was a slow, lazy thing, like he imagined a southern summer evening would be. Beautiful and quiet, special in its own uncomplicated way. 

"Like tattoos, huh?"

Castiel didn't answer, and Dean kept talking in small, soothing tones as if Castiel were a scared little boy. "See this one here?" A small rose, stunning in black and gray detail. "My mom had a rose garden when we were kids. She loved that thing, probably more than us sometimes." Dean's chuckle was brief. "I remember when I took a rose from the garden and brought it to her. She didn't show it, not openly, but I could tell she was disappointed, maybe even a little mad. But it didn't matter. My mom, man. Sweetest woman ever alive. All she did was smile that... beautiful smile of hers and tell me that she loved me. It was in a vase on the windowsill until one day it wasn't. I thought she'd maybe thrown it away, but nope." Dean took in a shaky breath. "I found it pressed between the pages of her favorite book after she died. She'd kept it... even though I had disappointed her."

Castiel opened his mouth—

"I like wings because they make me feel free," Dean whispered. His green eyes were wet. "They make me feel like I can do something _good_ with my life, even though I know I can't. This here?" Dean pointed to the pentagram tattoo on his chest. "Got it when me and Sammy were drunk. He's got one too, the poor bastard. What a fucking crazy night that was." A breath, and then... "These over here are my vices." Dean indicted to the other arm's sleeve. "A flask of whisky, my dad's silver-plated gun that I used to, uh... never mind..." _Rob the convenience store_ didn't need to be said. Castiel knew. "The demon wing thing was the artist's idea. Sort of a play on good and bad, you know? I'm 97% bad, but it's the people I love that make up the leftover 3%. Uh, what else..."

Dean was babbling, stalling for time, and Castiel knew it. He watched Dean, his small nervous smile, the way he searched his skin for another story to tell. Something warm pooled in his gut, his heart, and Castiel sucked in a breath with the suddenness of it. Dean glanced up at the sound, and his expression looked as if he were dying. 

They had run out of time. They both knew it. 

Castiel slowly sat up and made a move to get off the bed. Dean caught his wrist between gentle fingers and held it as long as he could, up until Castiel tried to get away again. Dean tightened his grip and whispered, "Stay."

He wanted to. More than he was willing to admit. They studied each other for a long time, caught between things they should and shouldn't say. In the end, Castiel forced himself to leave, shutting the door behind him and abandoning Dean in the soft, golden sunlight.

 _Don't complicate things_.

He promised himself he wouldn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm horrible at knowing what to tag for. If you feel there's a tag missing, please leave a comment with your thoughts. Thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> (And thank you to SurlyCat, avyssoseleison, and coplins for the suggestions so far!)


	10. Chapter 10

**DAY: 38**

Over the next few days, things hadn't become any less complicated.

The light touches Dean spared him didn't go unnoticed. The way Dean would brush his fingertips against his hand as they passed each other in the hallway. The sly, mischievous glance afterward. On Wednesday evening, when Castiel came home from work, Dean had dinner already ordered and served. _On plates_ , sweet red wine—his favorite—in _glasses_. Dean had a habit of reaching for something just as Castiel did, and their fingers met on the salt, brief touch warm and soft, then gone. These were little things, but _complicated_ things.

Then, there was the shower from this morning.

Dean took charge of the loofah, running it down the curve of Castiel's back, leaving soapy trails in its wake. Outlining every inch of his body with the damned thing. Nice and slow, like Dean had all day. A soapy hand reached around his waist and cupped his balls—too gently for him to enjoy. Too complicated. After his third scolding, Dean manhandled him into place and fucked him hard while Castiel hung onto the horizontal shower bar. He reveled in every brutal thrust... until Dean slowed down the pace, until their hard fucking turned sweet. Castiel narrowed his eyes to slits when Dean slotted his body against his, tight and warm, then leaned forward, brushing his lips against the back of his neck. 

A hard fuck in the shower had become complicated. 

Castiel shrugged his shoulders back sharply, and Dean got the hint, switching from warm and loving, to cold and biting like a change in seasons. Dean trailed the backs of his fingers in windy patterns down his shoulder blade, the branch of ribs, his side, in a touch that made Castiel yearn for a little more sweetness that didn't come. Then the brutality returned, and Dean crushed Castiel against the tile wall, every savage jolt of Dean's hips making its mark. 

The bruises still shuddered just below his skin.

"Mr. Sant'Angelo?"

Castiel snapped his head up. He'd been daydreaming, standing in the elevator opened wide and gaping to his floor. How long, he didn't know. Alastair stared at him, frowning, and Castiel shoved past him, heading to his apartment's door with his keys jangling noisily in his hands. He retreated into his home and shut the door behind him, setting down his briefcase, a white bag, and toeing off his shoes, lining them up properly like he always did. 

_Unlike_ he always did, Castiel abandoned the suitcase in the hall and took the white bag with him. He rushed through the apartment, flicking his eyes to the living room, down the hall. No Dean. The weight of the white bag was suddenly too heavy, dirty like it was filled with evidence from a crime. He'd put it in the refrigerator and hide in his boat room for the rest of the night, pretending he hadn't gone out of his way to pick it up. That he hadn't bought an _apple pie_ from Dean's favorite bakery, Dominique Ansel Bakery, down on Spring Street. 

Even _pie_ made things complicated.

 _Life_ seemed to enjoy complication.

In the kitchen, Dean stood in an old black T-shirt that looked too small on him. It stretched across his toned back, hugging his sides, and accentuated his—Castiel frowned. Dean hummed a little tune and swung his hips. Silky, black boxers with bright yellow Batman symbols left nothing to the imagination. They looked ridiculous, somehow charming. Completely _Dean_.

Castiel stood there, mesmerized. Dean's off-tune singing made him cringe, and Dean's... _dancing_ was something he'd seen on an 80s music video. When Dean turned around, Castiel wiped the smile off his own face, frowned quickly to cover up the evidence. Dean cleared his throat as a red flush crept up his neck. Then, Dean took stock of him and his eyes went wide. Despite Castiel's best efforts to hide it behind his legs, Dean had seen the white bakery bag. His expression brightened and that sweet smile spread over his lips. He looked like a boy excited for Christmas morning.

"That for me?" Dean asked, a young pitch to his tone. He licked his lips and bit back a grin. "Why?"

Castiel opened his mouth, considered, then closed it. Twice more, like a fish gasping for air. Unsure, Castiel shifted his weight, oddly nervous. Why had he bought it? As a _thank you_ , maybe? For what? He didn't know, and Castiel wobbled, speechless.

Dean came to his rescue. "You're basically proposing to me, you know."

Castiel scowled, but it didn't last long. Not under the brilliance of Dean's grin. Things were getting complicated again, and he could feel himself losing out to Dean's impossible charm. He had to escape, so he set the plastic bag on the kitchen counter, turned and—

"Hey, where you goin', Cas? You gotta try this with me."

"No, Dean. I'm tired."

"No one's too tired for pie, Cas. It's the law."

It wasn't, but Castiel didn't argue. He sighed sharply and stepped in next to Dean, while Dean produced two small plates and forks. Dean divvied out a serving for each of them, apple filling oozing out from wounds made with Dean's knife cuts. Once his was served, Castiel grabbed the fork quickly, stabbed the pie—

"What, are you a barbarian? Be gentle with it."

Castiel frowned at Dean's scandalized tone, near rolling his eyes. He'd learned from the beginning that pie was as important to Dean as his motorcycle, his family, and his music. He jabbed a glob of pie again and shot Dean another glare. Dean was too busy appreciating his pie to care, slipping a forkful between his lips, closing his eyes, and making the most... _erotic_ noise he'd ever heard. The sound went straight to his dick, and the weight of it was obscene between his legs. He was staring, _annoyed_ , when Dean opened his eyes, and Dean smiled wide, motioning to him. "Your turn."

He studied Dean skeptically, then turned that same skeptical look to his fork. A glob of pie fell onto his plate in protest, gooey and golden. Judging him. He frowned and mouthed a taste with Dean watching him as if it were the most important moment of his life. He chewed reluctantly, and that was when it happened. As the cinnamon caressed his tongue, as the apple settled warm and luscious in his throat, he _got_ it: that pie wasn't just pie, but incredibly... delicious and fulfilling. It was comforting, like a favorite blanket. Meaningful... because Dean loved it so much, too. When Castiel looked up, Dean had stilled, staring at him as if the world had ended. Then grinned so wide, Castiel thought it might crack his face open. Dean only smiled like that when he...

Castiel drew his smiling lips in a tight line and let a frown take up the empty space. Dean sobered too, then reached forward, thumbing a bit of apple pie filling from the corner of his mouth. The touch sent a shiver down his spine. But Dean wasn't done with teasing. Dean brought the thumb to his own lips and sucked off the filling. Slowly. Gently. Like he would if he were sucki—

Hard, flushed around his neck, Castiel turned and fled the room. He found safety in his huge walk-in closet, suits on hangers and lined up like perfect little soldiers. More dress shoes were slotted in dark wood shelves, ties hidden away in drawers and sorted by color. The automatic lights turned on and drowned Castiel in natural daylight, casting a normal color on his skin instead of the red creeping up his throat. A cushioned bench, long and not necessarily wide, took up the middle of the room. Castiel wanted to flop down on it, gather his composure, but he didn't have time. He had a visitor.

Dean leaned against the doorjamb, looking him over. Giving him several moments of personal space before invading it completely. Castiel backed up and Dean followed, grabbing the tie around his neck. The blue silk slipped between his fingers as Dean pulled on it, marveling over its fine quality. Dean's eyes met his own, and Dean smiled a little, the mischievous one that promised hard, hot sex. The Batman symbols on Dean's boxers were distorted, stretched in some places, and Castiel knew Dean was just as wanting as he was. He breathed in their closeness, drunk on it like wine, and Dean's nearness prickled his skin, making the hairs on his arms rise in attention. His breath caught short when Dean gently unknotted the tie, slipping it from his neck. 

A wry smile perked up Dean's lips. "I could make a joke about being in the closet..."

"Please don't."

Dean let out a shallow laugh, and the sound, the breath from it, kissed his face. One by one, Dean unbuttoned his dress shirt, his knuckles brushing against his sternum. The light touch lit up his entire body, and Castiel pushed a heavy breath past his lips. Dean looked up, just his eyes, and smiled slyly, _knowing_. Knowing how close Castiel was to fucking losing it here, in his closet, pushed against the dark wood panels by Dean's presence alone. Their shared gravity pulled them closer, and Dean leaned in just a little bit. So close that Castiel could almost _feel_ his stubble against his own close-shaven face. All he wanted to do was close that miniscule gap and make that connection, to touch him. But he didn't. He stood frozen while Dean finished off the last button, then sucked in a breath as Dean angled his face to whisper in his ear. "That new cologne you're wearing?"

He closed his eyes as Dean's lips brushed against his skin, holding in a breath so tightly, his chest _ached_. 

_Yes_.

"No," Castiel choked out.

He'd bought it just yesterday, finding himself in a perfume and cologne store on his lunch break. The smell of it—a seduction between earthiness and sweetness—reminded him of Dean, and it made him hard every time he caught a whiff of it on himself. Dean had slipped into his head, his body, and under his skin. His body trembled with it as Dean leaned in even closer, without touching him, and took in a simple breath; something that nearly undid him.

"Whatever it is," Dean rumbled in his ear. "I like it."

The whisper down his throat set him off like dynamite. Castiel exploded and grabbed Dean by the neck with both hands and pulled him in, stopping just _millimeters_ from kissing him. They both stared at each other, panting in the small space between them. His heart punched at his chest and he swore he could hear Dean's too. _This would complicate things_ , came the warning as Castiel studied Dean's beautiful eyes. Memorized every shuttered breath Dean took. Dean stared at his lips as if they were a new species of fish, and licked his own. The moisture, his heat, the _temptation_... Castiel pushed him back to arm's length, and Dean's face went slack. Shocked. His nostrils flared and his jaw line clenched to breaking. Then, Dean Winchester, sweet southern gentleman, _took_.

All he knew then was that his back hurt, pressed up harshly against the dark wood panel. Dean just inches from his face. He could breathe, but it was almost a struggle with Dean's fingers clenched around his neck. Once the surprise fell away, Castiel was left incredibly aroused, looking into Dean's wild eyes. Dean was going to take a fucking kiss—he could see it swirling angrily in green irises, festering in black pupils. Castiel tried to control his breathing, but they came out in wispy little pants. Dean's mouth was so close to his own, partly open, ready to take what he thought was his. Castiel should've struggled, but he let Dean's warmth invade and placate him, let his mind wander to the kiss that would surely happen.

It didn't.

Dean was merciful. He didn't force a kiss on him, steal it from his lips, because Dean knew he didn't want that. Never had. But Dean _did_ grab his hard cock, and Castiel gasped with the touch, slamming his head back and his arms wide. A pair of shoes fell from its shelf, and the hangers of suits rattled like old bones. Dean rubbed him over his black slacks, and Castiel choked back a groan. His knees felt weak while Dean stroked fingers over his long, hard length, and he began to sweat there in the closet. Weak, wanting, Castiel angled his hips into the affection, puffing out a hard breath. Something of a whimper went out with it. Dean rubbed harder. Castiel jerked back into the shelves, wincing at the hard corner in his ribs. He didn't care. He wanted to get off. He needed Dean.

He opened his eyes. Dean stared at him, bottom lip tucked under his teeth. He was watching Castiel get off, got off on it himself, and the thought alone almost made him come. Castiel whimpered Dean's name, and Dean yanked Castiel's head to the side with his free hand. It exposed his neck, and Dean brushed his lips against skin, teasing at first, then pinching between his teeth. The pain spiked down his spine, and Castiel called out with it. So close, so desperate. Dean knew. Dean always knew.

Dean stopped rubbing him, dragging his face along his neck like a cat might on a piece of furniture. His voice was like gravel, rough and tinted dark, when he said, "Fuck. That cologne's gotta be new."

Then Castiel was tossed to the small bench, legs on either side, head cushioned by white leather. Ass up, Dean reaching around to unbuckle his pants. Hot air hit bare skin, and Dean spat on his hand before a searing heat hit his backside. There was no teasing, no hard cock sliding between the crack of his ass first, probing at his hole gently, Dean's favorite tease. There was just a brutal thrust and a hard, painful breach, making Castiel cry out and the sound echo in the small space. Castiel arched his back up as if that'd stop the discomfort, and Dean took that as a sign to pull on his hair, riding him like a horse. Fuck if it wasn't the hottest thing, and the pain slipped away, his pleasure humming through his body. Hard and rough turned soft again, like it had in the shower this morning, and Castiel braced himself for temptation. Instead, Dean pulled him up by his hair, chest flush to his back, and leaned in, lips touching his ear. He was so close to coming, and he groaned, his iron will faltering by the second. He wanted to lean into Dean, capture those lips with his, kiss until they both bruised. 

But he didn't. He couldn't.

Dean fucked him slowly, and that was all he could allow himself. With a short, panted breath, Dean said, "Let me touch you..."

"You are," he whispered back.

"Not like this..."

 _Like this_ , Dean said with a gentle touch. Dean slid a hand down his torso, his fingertips bumping over every rib, his thumb rounding a hipbone. Lips brushed against his shoulder cap and drew a line to his neck. Castiel wanted this, all his sweet touches, but couldn't afford them. They were too risky. Too complicated.

" _No_ ," Castiel growled.

Dean bit him as consequence. The sudden pain shocked him, and Castiel came with Dean following quickly behind. They stood there, panting in the closet, sweaty and exhausted. Dean was the first to recover. Thumbing every single one of his vertebrae, gentle, loving, up, up, before squeezing the back of his neck just as affectionately. 

That was the last time Dean touched him like that. Sweet. Loving. Just as beautiful as he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm horrible at knowing what to tag for. If you feel there's a tag missing, please leave a comment with your thoughts. Thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> (And thank you to SurlyCat, avyssoseleison, and coplins for the suggestions so far!)


	11. Chapter 11

**DAY: 41**

Castiel wouldn't allow himself the luxury of missing Dean's gentle touches. Sex after that night had been rough and bruising like it'd always been, without the brief moments of sweetness Dean usually gave him. To keep himself from dwelling on it, he'd kept himself busy the last few days, sprawling over the Draper-Larkin details and making sure everything clipped along nicely. It was heading toward a hostile takeover and he couldn't stop it. More troubling was Dr. Mills' call that week. Sam wasn't doing well in the rehabilitation center. Still combative. Still not taking to treatments.

He stared blankly at the TV while Dr. Sexy stalked the hospital, looking for Dr. Smith because of the fistfight they'd had in the emergency room. Dean sat one cushion over from him on the couch. His phone began ringing. It was late. Nothing good ever came of a late-night phone call.

"This is Dean."

He tore his eyes away from the TV when Dean shot up from the couch.

"When did this happen?" A pause, then, " _Fuck_... Okay. I'm on my way."

Dean hung up the phone and ran out of the room. Castiel followed quickly behind and found Dean in the foyer, grabbing his shoes, his jacket, shoving them on. His face was tight, full of harsh lines, worry under all that... anger.

"What's wrong, Dean?" Castiel asked, trying to keep his voice level.

"It's Sam," and that was all he said.

Dean grabbed his motorcycle keys and headed for the door, but Castiel stepped in front of him, grabbing his shoulders to prevent him from leaving. Under his touch, Dean wavered, and from here, Dean's eyes were misted over, red from being tired. In no condition to drive.

"I'm not letting you leave until you tell me what's wrong."

"It's not your concern."

"Sam _is_ my concern," he countered.

Dean immediately softened, turning to butter in his hands. His handsome face fell a little, and he looked wounded, defeated, like a war-torn hero. "Sam... he—uh, he... _escaped_ the facility and got high. They found him and dragged his ass back, but..." Dean rubbed a hand down his face.

"Is he all right?"

"Yeah, just... high as a fucking kite."

"Look at me." When Dean did... "We'll fix this."

Dean clenched his jaw, and his face nearly crumpled with a tear brimming at one of his eyes. Castiel left him there in the middle of the foyer, wobbling on his feet, while he got dressed. A more casual white dress shirt, a light gray jacket. He slipped his dark jeans on, grabbed his black pea coat and keys. When he glanced at Dean, he caught him staring, his lips tweaked with a tiny smile. Their eyes met. Dean flashed him a sly grin. "Sorry. Just never seen you so dressed down before."

"You've seen me naked, Dean," Castiel deadpanned.

"Yeah, but... this is different." Dean's smile dialed back. "It's nice."

Castiel thumbed his car keys while they stared at each other. He didn't know what to say, so instead, he smiled at him, the barest he could, then opened the door. 

They headed for the garage together.

***

The rural roads stretched out dark and foreboding ahead of them. Beside him, in the passenger seat, Dean bounced his knee and chewed on his thumb, more nervous than Castiel had ever seen him. There hadn't been a need for music. Their light conversation about Dr. Sexy, the finer details of apple pie, kept silence at bay. It was only when they drew closer to the facility did Dean stop talking completely. 

Castiel flicked a dial, and violin music filled the car. It always soothed his frazzled nerves. Maybe Dean would find the same benefit. But Dean fidgeted even more, clenching his fist at his side. Then, with a burst of energy, he shot forward and changed the radio channel... to rock music.

He hated rock music.

Castiel slipped him a glance, but Dean was unaware, staring out the window. City lights popped up in the distance, which meant they were close. Dean seemed to take in a sharp breath. The very existence of the rehabilitation facility, and facing Sam, must frighten him. He'd take pity except...

He switched the radio channel again. Whatever song had been playing grated his ears, shattered his concentration. He guided his precious Mercedes around a bend in the road, and Dean chose then to reach for the dial. It earned him a stern glare, and when they were safe on straight asphalt, Castiel changed the channel _again_. 

"The driver picks the music," Castiel said as Dean went for the radio again. "As a passenger, you'll be quiet."

He could feel eyes crawling all over him. Castiel glanced at him, and Dean nodded. "Fair enough."

The radio channel didn't change again.

When they arrived, Dean practically jumped out of the car while it was still moving. Castiel parked it as Dean barreled through the doors. Inside, Provenance Rehabilitation Center wasn't as sterile as he might have thought. It was tastefully decorated, with warm colors and wood furniture. Soothing. A neutral ground for healing.

Dean was nowhere in sight.

Castiel was guided to Sam's room after speaking with the receptionist. More tasteful furniture, warm colors, and a comfortable-looking bed—with Dean standing next to it and yelling at the young man sitting on it. Sam couldn't be older than his late twenties, unless his baby-face hedged off any signs of aging. His long hair hung in his face, his broad shoulders hunched over, tense with unspent energy. He knew that posture: rebellious and strong-headed. It spoke of Sam's resistance to his brother's scolding. Dean wasn't getting to him. Dean was pushing him farther away.

"That's _not_ what Bobby taught us, Sammy. There's _always_ a way. You just gotta fight for it."

"I want to fight. I do. But I just feel like..."

Sam sounded so small, so fragile. His voice broke toward the end and he seemed so much younger than he already was. Sam didn't look up at his brother.

"You feel like what?"

"Giving up."

"What does that mean?" Dean asked quietly, words quavering on anger. "What does that mean, Sammy? That you wanna go back to the way you were living? Getting high behind dumpsters? Overdosing in your fucking car like you did a couple of years ago?" Dean sucked in a hard breath like he'd just realized something. He stared hard at his brother, studying him with a critical eye. "That's a death wish, Sammy."

"I know."

Dean's nostrils flared. "You _know_? You wanna die, is that what you're telling me?" Sam's head lowered more, and Dean nearly lost it. "I can't fucking believe—" Dean ran a hand down his face. "You want to _die_? Is that what... this bullshit is about? You want to _die_?"

"Yeah, Dean, I do." Sam looked up. Budding anger tightened his voice. "Is that so wrong?"

"Wrong? You're asking me if you wanting _to die_ is _wrong_?" Dean ran both hands through his hair and turned away from him. A small lamp was sent into the wall not a second later. It crashed, and both Sam and Castiel jumped. "Of course, it's wrong! You're my brother, Sammy. What the fuck."

"You weren't my brother when I needed you."

"Fuck you. That's not fair."

"It _is_ fair. You left me, Dean. When I needed you the most, you turned your fucking back on me. What kind of brother does that?" Sam growled. "You're just like Dad."

Dean clenched his jaw hard, stared at him even harder. A tear rolled down his cheek. "Dad tried his hardest to take care of us after Mom died—"

"By dragging you with him to rob a convenience store?"

"You know we didn't have any money."

"There's other ways! You just said so."

" _That_ was our other way," Dean whispered.

"Yeah? And look what good that did us. You and Dad went to jail, Dean. Dad _died_ , okay? Then, you got out and _abandoned_ me. I needed my fucking brother. You weren't there. Drugs were."

"Look, dude. I'm sorry..."

"Yeah, it's too late."

"What the fuck are you saying?" Dean yelled. "That you're gonna kill yourself?"

"Yeah, maybe." Sam lifted his eyes to his brother. "When are you gonna realize it's over, Dean, huh? There's nothing to fight for. Not for me."

"No, see, I know you don't believe that," Dean said. "I refuse to believe it."

"What's your plan then? You gonna try and convince me I still got something in this life?"

"Yeah. That's my plan. My plan is to get you to fight. My plan is to try! My plan is to give a damn, Sammy! But, I can't help you if you ain't willing to fight for yourself."

"I'm not fighting this anymore." Sam shot him a glare. "So, why are you even here?"

"You gotta fucking fight this! I can fix this, okay? But not if you shut me out." Dean sighed. "Sam, listen to me. I made you a promise. That I'd be there for you, no matter what this time. But you got to let me in, man. You got to let me help."

"I wish you had helped me _then_..."

Dean ran his fingers through his own hair again and pulled, then stomped toward the door. His face was streaked with tears and he avoided eye contact. Castiel grabbed him by the arm before Dean could leave. Dean whipped his face toward him, eyes wide, as if just realizing he'd been there at all. 

"I'd like to speak to your brother."

Dean clenched his jaw and studied his face, then glanced into the room at Sam. His barely-there nod gave him all the permission he needed, and Castiel let Dean go. With heavy feet, defeated in ways, angry in others, Dean stomped down the hall and disappeared around a corner.

Sam hadn't moved from the bed, hadn't looked up to notice his new visitor. Castiel regarded him from the door. Dean's brother would be quite tall if the weight on his shoulders wasn't crushing him. Probably handsome, too, if his face wasn't as white as fine linen. Suddenly, looking at Sam, Castiel was faced with a significant tightness in his chest. The task, talking to a boy so broken, seemed so insurmountable. How could he be soft and gentle when, for so many years, he'd been hard and unyielding?

He took a deep breath and stepped inside and, when Sam didn't move or acknowledge him, set right the chair Dean had kicked over and sat down. Under all that hair, the boy had large dark circles under his eyes, dry cracked lips, and a sullen expression. He knew how Sam's smile looked—he'd seen it in the family photo—and he wished he could see it now. It'd give him a glimmer of hope.

Castiel took another deep breath and said, "Hello, Sam."

Sam peeked up through long eyelashes and hair. He didn't need to say anything for Castiel to know he had Sam's attention. Castiel went on.

"My name is Castiel Sant'Angelo—"

"Yeah. I've heard of you," Sam said, but not with attitude. "You pay for my stay here, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Why?" Before Castiel could answer... "You my brother's boyfriend?"

Castiel opened his mouth immediately to answer the question, but shut it before a single word came out. This time, he thought before speaking, and said quietly, "No. Dean and I are... friends."

"Must be some special kind of 'friends,' then, because I know this place ain't cheap."

"We share... a bond."

"Yeah, a profound one," Sam shot back. "Look. I don't care if you're his boyfriend, all right? Just... don't hurt him."

"But you are," Castiel countered, sitting back in the chair. "Why can't I?"

Sam's nostrils flared. Finally, Dean's younger brother looked up and his long hair fell away from his face. He sat straight up and seemed to grow inches, a towering force in a small room. If Sam chose to punch him right then, he wouldn't have a chance. He didn't, and Sam's angry face softened.

"Sam... I know you're angry at your brother. I know he abandoned you when you needed him most, but..." Castiel breathed in. "He's here _now_. Doesn't that amount for something?"

Sam kept quiet, looking away as if what Castiel had said rang true. The conversation stalled after that, with Sam's eyes on the floor, and Castiel searching his face. Castiel sighed softly, then took a leap of faith. "I had a brother once... when we were kids, we'd spend our summers at our parent's lake house. We'd build small wooden boats together, swim, laugh, play. Pick on each other, things that brothers do." Castiel swallowed. "When I was seven, he was killed in a car accident. That tragedy stole my brother from me. I'll never see him grow up, get married, have children. I'll never see him smile, or hear his laugh again— _God_ , what I wouldn't give to hug him right now."

When Sam didn't say anything, he traded in Sam's face for the floor. "Sam, listen to me, you still have a brother and he loves you more than anything. He'd sell his soul to save you. And although he's not perfect, he's a good man. It would _kill him_ if he lost you." Castiel didn't look up. "If you can't find enough respect for yourself to stop what you're doing.... do it for Dean. Don't push him away. Forgive him if you can. Don't allow anger to steal your brother away from you."

After a long moment of silence, Castiel looked up. Sam had clenched his jaw, a line of wetness making his eyes more alive. Slowly, Sam nodded, swallowed hard, and said, "What... what was your brother's name?"

"Jimmy. His name was Jimmy."

"Jimmy," Sam said, reverent. Then he looked at him in the eyes. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"Don't be sorry, Sam," he said quickly. "Make it right with Dean. Can you do that?"

Sam let out a huff of a laugh. "Not that easy. It's not some... switch I can just turn off."

"I know, Sam. And I didn't say it'd be easy, but you can _try_."

Sam clenched his jaw, and his eyes gravitated back down to the floor. His body language, tense, hard lines all over, said no, he wouldn't try, but when Sam looked back up, Castiel saw something completely different in those big eyes. He saw that glimmer of hope he'd needed to see. 

"No more getting high, all right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Embrace the treatments and get better. For Dean. But most importantly, for yourself."

"Yeah, okay," Sam said, noncommittal at best. When Castiel stood, Sam did too and said, "I can see why Dean likes you."

Castiel frowned. "Likes me?"

Sam gave him a look. "Are you serious? Can you really not tell he's crazy about you?"

Castiel narrowed his eyes, confused.

"You're all I ever hear about when Dean and I talk. 'Cas this, Cas that.' He talks about you as if he's put you on a pedestal. I almost expected you to ride in here on a white horse, dressed in armor."

Castiel almost cracked a smile, but held it in check. Dean _liked_ him. Their moment was broken when Dean came in, calmer than he had been, holding a little four-cup drink holder with three coffees on it. "Thought we might need this. Bought some Snickers, too, in case we get hungry."

The second Dean put it on Sam's nightstand, Sam stood up to his full height. Castiel stepped back to let the giant by, allowing Sam to traverse the small room. The brothers had a stare off, a silent conversation with expressions like brothers do, before Sam reached out and grabbed Dean, pulling him in a bear hug, squeezing him until Dean squeaked. Dean roughly patted him on the back, and they parted, both smiling wide. Dean's smile died quickly. "Sam..."

"I know. We got stuff to work on, and it's not gonna be easy, but... we'll try, right?" Sam offered a small smile. "Let's start over."

Dean nodded. "Yeah. Clean slate."

"I'm going to be okay," Sam said. "Right, Cas?"

They both looked at him. Castiel flashed Dean a smug smile, fully shit-eating, revenge for all the ones he had to suffer through. Dean grinned right back at him, and it promised more than just friendship. It promised something... more profound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm horrible at knowing what to tag for. If you feel there's a tag missing, please leave a comment with your thoughts. Thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> (And thank you to SurlyCat, avyssoseleison, and coplins for the suggestions so far!)


	12. Chapter 12

**DAY: 42**

Dean _liked_ him.

His small smile slid away as the elevator doors opened to his floor. The flutter in his heart distracted him, his mind whirling with all things Dean. 

He didn't see Alastair until it was too late.

They ran into each other as Castiel stepped out, each jumping back as if the other had suddenly contracted a disease. Alastair looked at him with wide eyes, mouth open, ready to spew either an apology or an insult. He didn't know which. 

Castiel smoothed down his own crisp, expensive suit, and they stood there awkwardly, neither saying a word. Alastair nodded, sharp, clipped, and turned away. Possibly off to make more of his rounds.

"Alastair..."

Alastair stopped and turned around again, plastering a fake smile on his pale face. "Yes, Mr. Sant'Angelo?"

"You don't need to call or text me when Dean needs to get into the apartment."

Alastair frowned, and it made his face cave in on itself. "I have rules to uphold. Every resident must be alerted upon visitation."

"Not unless Dean himself is a resident."

His eyes went wide. "You... Are you saying that Dean Winchester is your... _resident_?" 

Castiel found himself at a crossroads. Tell Alastair never mind, that he'd made a mistake. Or give Dean residency and willingly lose a little bit of control. Alastair's cold eyes burrowed into his skull, picking him apart. Castiel took in a deep breath, let it out slowly and said, "Yes. He's my resident."

Alastair made a face of disgust. "No."

"Excuse me?"

"I said no," Alastair snapped. "Making him your... _resident_... is a bad idea. I know his kind: he's a thief and a liar. He's taking advantage of you"—he curled his lips into a sneer—" _changing_ you. This Dean Winchester... he isn't a good man. He doesn't belong here." Alastair tilted his chin up. "He deserves to be on the _streets_."

It didn't register until it happened; until he had grabbed Alastair by the collar and yanked him in. Hard. " _You_ will be on the streets if you _ever_ talk about Dean like that again." Castiel sneered. "Get him a key. _Today_." 

"Of course, Mr. Sant'Angelo."

Castiel let Alastair go, turned his back on his snarling face, and went down the hall to his apartment. If there'd been a stain on the carpet, he hadn't noticed. He wouldn't see clutter or dirty dishes had there been any. Too... tired, angry and drained to care. 

He unceremoniously dropped his suitcase in the living room and plopped down on the couch, arms stretched out wide across the back of it. That damn spot on the fucking ceiling again... He stared at it for a little while, then closed his eyes, letting gravity push out all his stress, his irritation, through his toes. His muscles ached, his brain was fried, and all he wanted to do was go to sleep for a week.

"Hey, Cas," Dean chirped from... somewhere. "You hungry?"

"No."

"Tough day at work?" There were noises in the kitchen. Pots clanking, cups clinking against one another. Silverware slapping together with a metallic clang. Dean was loading the dishwasher.

"Tiring day at work," Castiel corrected. "Yours?"

All motion in the kitchen stopped. If he hadn't known any better, Dean seemed to have disappeared by how utterly silent everything had suddenly become. The central heating kicked on, and it was all he could hear besides the constant white-noise hum of New York City outside his sweeping windows.

Castiel angled his head and opened one eye. Dean was staring at him, holding a cup in suspended animation. Surprised. Castiel frowned. That seemed to knock Dean out of his trance, and a little smile curved his kissable lips. "Sorry. S'just you've never asked me about my day before."

"Don't read into it," he said hoarsely, staring at the ceiling again.

"Well, my day was good. I talked to Sam and Dr. Mills."

"How is he?"

"Doing better."

"Dean..."

"Not lying this time, Cas. Promise. He actually went to a session today without being dragged there. I say that's a win. Jody was positive about his new outlook too. Said he hadn't been that willing in ever. I think he's gonna give this thing a chance finally." He could hear the smile in Dean's voice when he said, "I've got my brother back, Cas."

"I'm glad, Dean."

"I, uh... I wanted to say thanks—"

"What else did you do today?"

There was a moment of silence, then... "Um, I straightened up a bit around here, did the dishes... pretty uneventful. You seemed to have had an eventful day, though."

"Always."

From the kitchen, the dishwasher started, whirling and gargling up bits of foodstuffs and ghosts of the soft drinks Dean seemed to love. Then, there was a hand on his shoulder, nudging him. Castiel frowned again, to which Dean said, "Lay on your stomach."

"No. I'm not moving."

Dean leaned in close, and his minty breath tickled his neck. "I've been told I've got magical hands, Cas. I could give you a massage. Get rid of some of that stress for you."

Castiel regarded Dean warily. Dean winked and that sealed the deal, making Castiel shuck off his suit jacket, vest, tie, white shirt, all of which Dean took and set aside carefully. The couch cushions molded to his body as Castiel settled into them, lying on his stomach as he was told. He expected Dean to straddle him immediately, but Dean didn't, and when Castiel looked up, Dean was nowhere to be found. Dean sauntered into the room just then with a bottle of... something, and a wicked little smile. The hand on his back was warm, enticing, and if he wasn't so goddamn tired, that touch alone would've made him hard. How pathetic he'd become.

The smell of the... lotion? was a little spicy with vanilla undertones. It was seductive in its scent, lulling him into a thoughtful place, where Dean lay on the bed, spread for him and ready. The mental image stirred his cock, and so did Dean mounting him, but then it all disappeared—lust, stress, _thinking_ —when Dean slid his hands beneath his undershirt and began to rub. His thumbs dug into tight muscle, and Castiel groaned, pressing his head into the couch cushions. His hands on his skin... they felt amazing. More than amazing, even. _Orgasmic_.

"Fuck," slipped out of his mouth when Dean used his fists to knead flesh. Whimpered and said his name as Dean's thumbs bumped over every vertebrae. Dean was right. He had magical hands, and Castiel melted under them, seeping through the couch, through the floor, like spilled water. Castiel let Dean touch him everywhere, however he liked. His neck, back, his bare arms. Rough, hard, gentle, sweet. He didn't care, as long as Dean was touching him, making love to him with his hands. The gel Dean had used warmed between them, and it made everything better. More relaxing. Arousing.

Castiel wanted to throw Dean on the couch and fuck him senseless. But he couldn't move, too spellbound by Dean's fingers that even breathing was a hard thing to muster. His cock filled rapidly when Dean leaned over, flush against his back, and whispered, "Feelin' good?" into his ear.

"I'd feel better with you inside me," Castiel said. Without thinking.

Those magical hands stuttered on his flesh for a second, then stilled before taking up the task of massaging him again. "Not everything has to turn into sex, Cas." Dean chuckled. "Besides. Kinda like torturing you like this."

Castiel made a noise of disgust. "You're insufferable."

"Yeah, but you still love me."

Castiel froze, the tease in Dean's voice completely lost on him. Dean's hands stopped too. The whole world seemed to hold its breath, a single question hanging in the air like an executioner's axe.

Did he love Dean?

He jerked himself up, and Dean took it as the command it was: get off quickly. Castiel pushed past, and Dean stumbled out of the way, letting Castiel gather up his clothing without much of a fight. 

"Cas! I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean—"

The slam of his bedroom door executed the rest of his apology.

***

Later that evening, a small brown envelope had been slipped under his apartment's door. The note read, "Your request," in neat tidy print, signed "A." Castiel didn't have to open it to see what it was. His thumb and forefinger guessed at the familiarity of an extra apartment key. Dean's key. Castiel had crept into Dean's room and left it on Dean's nightstand to avoid another pie incident, then retreated to his boat room until bedtime.

There, in his bedroom, he lie awake, wondering what it all meant. The key. Dean still being here. Questions haunted him until the clock glared an angry 4:02 a.m. Castiel sighed and turned over, closing his eyes. The thoughts didn't stop. Complicated thoughts. Thoughts of them together, as a couple, sharing the same space. How different could it be than now?

It startled him that, in fact, it wouldn't be much different at all. They'd eat dinner together at the dining room table and, on rare occasions, in front of the TV. They'd still watch and discuss the finer points of Dr. Sexy. Dean would _still_ walk around the apartment in his Batman boxers. Castiel would still hate it when Dean incessantly chattered in the morning. The basics would stay the same, he knew. But the foundation, the structure of their relationship...

He would need to allow Dean to touch him gently, kiss him. Let Dean completely past his defenses and give up total control. He'd have to open himself up to the risk of getting his heart broken, of Dean tiring of him and leaving. That thought alone cut at his chest, leaving him bleeding doubts and insecurities. But none of it answered the question.

Did he love Dean?

Hell, did he even _like_ Dean?

Castiel tossed and turned a couple more times before whipping the covers back. 4:46 a.m. He sighed and dropped his head in his hands, then rubbed at his sleep-deprived eyes. Stress clawed up his back to sit on top of his shoulders like a great boulder.

He knew what he needed.

Castiel got up, padded barefoot down the hall, and stopped in front of Dean's room. The door was open, always welcoming, just like Dean, and Dean lay inside, sheets barely covering his naked body. The sight alone, of his long and lean torso, of skin he knew would be warm and safe, made him ridiculously hard. _Dean_ was his stress relief.

He tiptoed in and stood at the edge of the bed, looking down on him. Fast asleep with eyes dancing under freckled eyelids. Castiel bit his bottom lip, thought against waking him, then did it anyway, nudging his shoulder until Dean sleepily stirred. "What—Cas?"

"Dean..." Castiel took in a breath. "I need you."

Dean understood what those three words meant and scooted over to make room for him. Then he took his flaccid cock in hand and started stroking, mostly asleep, always willing. Always _giving_. He watched Dean start and stop multiple times, falling asleep for seconds in between. Dean was exhausted. Castiel couldn't do this to him.

"Dean..."

"I'll be... ready in a minute... just... give me a minute..."

Castiel grabbed Dean's stroking hand gently and nestled it against his side. It took a minute for Dean to fall back asleep completely, a quiet little snore escaping his open mouth. Castiel pulled the sheets up to his chest, then left. 

He'd be taking care of himself tonight.

***

The next morning, Castiel stepped out of the shower, towel wrapped around his waist, and dashed into his bedroom where he found Dean waiting for him. There was a mischievous little smirk on his face that Castiel ignored. Just like Dean knew what those three words meant, Castiel knew what that smile meant all too well.

He should've heeded the warning.

Before he knew it, he was face-first on the bed, the towel pulled and tossed away. Leaving him naked, stressed, and irritated. "Dean," Castiel hissed. "I'm already late for work."

"It'll only take a minute," Dean said, moving in behind him. "I want you to think about me all day."

 _I already do_.

Dean dropped to his knees and pushed him forward, spread his cheeks and _licked_. Castiel jolted in surprised, then melted under Dean's tongue. The long strokes set every nerve ending on fire, and the small, probing jabs inched him closer to an orgasm he hadn't counted on. Then, gently, Dean slipped a finger inside, mouthing him while fucking his ass, making him moan with every single thrust, lick, and nuzzle. His thighs trembled, and he breathed in fine cotton, pressing his face into the mattress. When Dean slipped his finger out, Castiel growled. His dissatisfaction was short lived. Dean buried his face in his ass, mouthing, licking, even biting a little, like he was fucking starving. Castiel whimpered and fisted himself, stroking hard and rough, slipping his wet cock between his tight, tight fingers. It didn't take him long to come, and he spilled between him and the fine bedspread. Just another thing he needed to get dry-cleaned. 

He slid to the floor, knees weak, lungs panting for air. Dean had already made it to the door when Castiel managed to look over his shoulder. When their eyes met... "What was that for?" Castiel asked breathlessly.

"Everything." Sam. The key. Mercy last night. "See you at lunch." 

Dean winked and left him there, spent, wrecked. Satisfied—and terribly late for work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm horrible at knowing what to tag for. If you feel there's a tag missing, please leave a comment with your thoughts. Thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> (And thank you to SurlyCat, avyssoseleison, and coplins for the suggestions so far!)


	13. Chapter 13

**DAY: 55**

Another hard day had chipped at his bones, leaving him exhausted and frazzled. He stumbled into his apartment and toed off his shoes but didn't line them up. His briefcase fell over on its side in the grand foyer. His suit jacket, vest, tie left... _somewhere_ he couldn't remember. The Draper-Larkin acquisition was going to shit and it was fucking with his brain and confidence. Worst thing was, he couldn't stop it. Couldn't convince his clients, Adock Pharmaceuticals, to stop being so fucking aggressive. A hostile takeover was the last thing his clients needed yet they were headed straight for it. It would open up Draper-Larkin, the target company, for retaliation. They'd seek out _other options_. They would look for a _white knight_ ; the better deal. 

If only his clients would just... fucking _listen_. 

The smell of... _something_ snatched all thoughts of work away. It was rich, it was _food_ , and Castiel followed the scent into the kitchen, where Dean stood, cooking up a heavenly storm. 

As if Dean were radioed into his every movement, he turned to find Castiel standing there, staring. At his silky _Spider-Man boxers_. Dean wiggled his hips. "What do you think?"

Castiel looked up, frowning. "About what? Your horrible taste in underwear?"

"What?" Dean shot him a look of wide-eyed surprise. "How dare you. Spider-Man is awesome. Not as cool as Batman, but you know. Whatever."

"They're atrocious, Dean."

"So is your taste in ties," Dean returned coolly, shaking a spatula at him. "The dark blue, white-striped one in particular."

"I _like_ that one," Castiel mumbled.

"Yeah, well. It doesn't do anything for you." Dean turned back to whatever he was cooking. "Now, the _other_ blue one—the one that matches your eyes?— _that one_ I like."

Castiel stared at his back for a while, studying him. Contemplating how a man like Dean Winchester had come into his life. All cock-sure and bravado, with an endearing fragility just under his skin. Something drew Castiel over to him just then, chest to Dean's back, almost touching but not quite. This time, it was Castiel who was invading Dean's personal space. 

Dean looked over his shoulder. His green eyes went immediately to Castiel's lips. If Castiel had been any closer, they could have kissed.

He looked into Dean's beautiful eyes. "What are you doing?"

"Building a spaceship," Dean whispered.

Castiel narrowed his eyes. "Dean..."

"Making us dinner," Dean said. "What's it look like?"

He looked down in the skillet. Two nicely browned patties sizzled in their juices. Looking back up to Dean, he said, "Hamburgers," to answer Dean's obviously rhetorical question.

Dean smiled wide, and it was captivating. Their moment was interrupted by his stomach as it growled angrily. For some reason, it made Dean smile even wider. "Hungry?"

Castiel had counted fifty-six freckles before he said, "Maybe."

Dean grinned. It reached his eyes and made them even more stunning. He stood there, bewitched, until Dean said, "Why don't you go sit down? This is almost done."

Extracting himself from Dean—it was like pulling off a sticky bandage that'd been stuck to hairs far too long. Painful. Brutal. He turned and walked away slowly, then stopped and asked, "Are we eating dinner together?"

"That's the whole idea, Cas."

"Will you put on pants?"

"No." Dean flashed him another grin.

Castiel sighed and walked out. In the dining room, plates and glasses had already been set. No silverware, which he found unsettling. No wine either. In each glass was a liquid, dark and bubbly. Sweet enough to rot his teeth on contact. 

He put the glass down right as Dean came in, a third plate piping hot with two assembled hamburgers and fries. Dean placed a burger on each of their plates and settled in a chair, putting a napkin over his boxers. Thankfully hiding them away from his sight. Castiel had already been sitting, and stared at his burger. Confused.

"What is it?"

He looked up. Dean had already taken a bite of his own hamburger. Juices oozed down his fingers. They were all over his face. Dean must have noticed his expression because he said, "You look like you've seen a ghost, dude."

"I need a fork and a knife."

"Are you kidding me?" Dean hissed. "Pick that shit up and eat it with your hands."

Castiel glared at him, on the cusp of scandal. Dean's eyes made him do impossible things, and Castiel picked up the hamburger with his hands and took a delicate bite. Juices exploded in his mouth, meat melted on his tongue. Suddenly, he didn't give a fuck if his hands were greasy, his napkin soiled, his face a mess. He just cared about eating his burger as quickly as he could. It tasted like a piece of Heaven, better than any pie could ever taste.

"You like it?"

He finished it in record time. Full and happy, he sat back in his chair and just... digested, taking a sip of the bubbly sweetness to wash it all down. A mistake. Castiel winced at the taste. "Yes, the hamburger. But not... that." He motioned to the drink.

"You don't like Coke? Wait, what about Dr. Pepper?"

"What?"

"Do you drink any soda whatsoever?"

"No, Dean."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Are you an alien from outer space?"

Castiel wiped off his mouth, frowning.

"Are you human?" More confusion. "Who doesn't like soda?"

"Sensible adults."

"I'm a sensible adult," Dean mumbled.

"Are you?" Castiel shot him a look.

"Yes." Dean bubbled out his bottom lip, pouting. He looked ridiculous—and adorable.

Castiel folded his napkin neatly and set it aside, considering Dean more seriously. Dean finished off his burger in the messiest way he could, lettuce falling onto the table. Onions in stringy little pieces all over his plate. How could a train wreck of a man make something so... perfect?

"Where did you learn how to make that?"

Dean shrugged. "Been making them all my life. When Sammy and I were kids, it was all we could afford to eat sometimes. Dad taught me how. Been doing it ever since." Dean looked at him. Hopeful. "Did you—"

"It's the best burger I've ever tasted, Dean."

That seemed to lift Dean's spirits to soaring. His grin took over his entire face. He could fall in love with that smile alone—and the thought startled him. He stared while Dean went on and on about opening up his own restaurant one day. Inviting all his friends. Hoping he'd be there. Castiel blinked and looked at him. Dean had a hand on his forearm. He hadn't noticed it. Nor that Dean was rubbing the inside of his wrist with a thumb.

He pulled his hand away, whispered, "That's nice," and stood up. He pushed his chair in and left the dining room. Bare feet against the floorboards told him Dean had followed. 

"I'm going to watch some TV," Dean said.

Castiel nodded dumbly and stood there, alone in the hall. Sounds of a cop procedural show tiptoed in from the living room. The door to his boat room was just a few feet away. The living room farther. Uncomplicated and complicated—choices he faced with uncertainty and trepidation. He looked toward the living room longingly. What he wouldn't give to sit next to Dean on that couch, without all these... _thoughts_. Doubts. Fears. The weight of them bore down on him, and he stumbled toward the boat room but didn't make it far. He stood in the hall, lost like a ship at sea, adrift between safety and danger. Reluctantly, he took another shaky step toward the boat room, his sanctuary, then another, determined to go in. The sound of Dean laughing in the living room—it was sweeter than the best pie in the world.

Castiel stared danger in the face not minutes later, sitting on the couch, one cushion over. Dean beamed him an easy smile—"Hey, sweetheart."—and every doubt and ounce of fear melted away. "Anything you wanna watch?"

 _No_. He just wanted to be with Dean.

They ended up watching trashy TV on TLC. Castiel drifted in and out of sleep during _Say Yes to the Dress_ ("You actually _watch_ this?" "Don't judge me," Dean shot back.), jolting awake every time his head dropped forward. A soft, gentle hand guided him to Dean's shoulder. He should've moved, left, gone to his bedroom—something. 

He fell asleep soundly on Dean instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm horrible at knowing what to tag for. If you feel there's a tag missing, please leave a comment with your thoughts. Thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> (And thank you to SurlyCat, avyssoseleison, and coplins for the suggestions so far!)


	14. Chapter 14

**DAY: 60**

Dean had taken to making them dinner every night after that evening. But when Castiel came home on Thursday, he knew immediately that something was... _off_. The smells of food usually welcomed him home as soon as he stepped into the apartment. Tonight, the air was devoid of anything delicious. No hamburger grease. Nothing.

The TV in the living room was on, but no Dean. Dean wasn't dancing around in his boxers in the kitchen, nor was Dean asleep, barely covered by sheets in his bedroom. Castiel searched high and low for him. Then, he saw it: the door to his boat room partly open. Castiel sucked in a sharp breath.

When he burst in, Dean jumped ten feet, dropping a small wooden boat and a paintbrush. "Dude! Holy shit."

"What the _hell_ are you doing in here, Dean?" Castiel hissed. Before Dean could answer... "Get out!"

"Cas, I'm sorry. I—"

" _Get. Out_."

Dean nodded, stood up, and slipped past him with his eyes downcast. Like a child scolded for sneaking an extra cookie out of the cookie jar. Except this wasn't a cookie jar. It was his _safe place_. His shelter when everything fell apart around him. A haven that _didn't_ include Dean. This was the _one place_ Dean hadn't infected with his wit, his charm, his... _chaos_ —except _now_ , he had. Castiel stared at the room. Helplessly.

Slowly, he gathered his composure and sat down at the hobby table. The abandoned, unfinished boat was laying on its side, slightly wet with blue paint. The paint job was worse than if a two-year-old had done it. Green paint peeked through the first coat of blue—and that's when it hit him. This was the boat Castiel had started when Charles called weeks ago. The same boat he couldn't seem to pick up and finish afterward. He ran a thumb over its dry, blue-green spots, and his anger simply... disappeared. Dean had just been curious. What harm could curiosity truly bring?

He ran another finger over the shoddy little boat again. Something shifted in the doorway, and when he looked, Dean was there, leaning against the doorjamb with this... look on his face. "I swear, Cas," he whispered, "I'd sell my soul for those smiles of yours." 

He'd been doing it again: smiling. Castiel tightened his lips and set the boat down. He studied it for a while, when Dean said, "It's a little rough around the edges. But don't worry. I'll smooth them out."

Dean's voice pulled his head up again. The tone held a double-meaning, and Castiel narrowed his eyes in confusion. Dean winked at him and said, "He's a little cranky in the mornings. Doesn't like the TV on too loud. Usually, he can't sleep at night because he's too stressed. I guess the sea is pretty rough these days."

Castiel rolled his eyes and looked away. Making sure his half-smile was on the side Dean _couldn't_ see. "It needs another coat of paint," he said. "And here—the green is showing through."

Dean moved to hover behind him, leaning forward. Lips brushed against his ear. "That's part of its charm, though. I like the green mixed with the blue."

"It looks sloppy."

"It doesn't have to be perfect," Dean countered quietly in his ear. "None of us are."

Dean stepped away, and the room without his warmth was suddenly too much to bear. Dean had made it to the door, one foot out like he was going to leave, when Castiel asked, "Do you want to learn how to rig it?"

The smile on Dean's face melted his heart.

***

They spent the rest of the evening rigging boats together. Dean learned quickly, threading and gluing, accepting guidance with grace he himself never had when he had learned. Dean still refused to give the boat another coat of blue paint, insisted he liked green mixed with blue, and Castiel gave up, letting Dean do what he wanted. They took a break and had dinner—steak with sweet potato fries and edamame—and went back to work. It was close to bedtime when Dean leaned back in his chair and stretched.

"Hey. What's that up there?"

Too involved in his boat, Castiel didn't look up—until Dean was close enough to touch _it_ : the boat his brother Jimmy had made him. 

He jumped up from his seat and yanked Dean away. "Don't touch it!" Then it slipped— "My brother made it for me."

"Wait. Wait." Dean took a step back. His grin was wide. "You have a brother?"

He regretted everything. Letting Dean inside his house. His boat room. Letting Dean completely take over his life. As if Dean could sense something had changed, Dean showed it in his face. The grin disappeared. Sobriety and a grave seriousness came in to take its place. Quietly, he said, "Cas... talk to me."

"Your boat needs another coat of paint."

Castiel sat down, but the quiver in his voice said everything. Dean sat down beside him and just waited, staying as still as he could, as if somehow, moving would scare this broken, tired little boy. 

He avoided his eyes and fiddled with his boat, stringing another control thread to it. Dean rubbed at his arm. The touch was warm, inviting, coaxing him to spill everything. To tell _Dean_ everything.

"I had a brother," Castiel began. He didn't meet Dean's eyes. "He died when I was seven, in a car accident."

Everything went quiet. Even the heat shut off in silent reverence.

"You were right, Dean," he said, voice cracking. "My father is a shitheel. He was drunk at the time and—"

Dean rubbed his shoulder. Castiel angrily wiped at the single tear that'd escaped down his cheek and clenched his jaw. If he didn't get it together, he'd shatter into pieces, so he held everything back, whispering hoarsely, "I hate my brother for leaving me, Dean. I hate my father for killing him. My mother didn't leave my father until just a few weeks ago—and I hate her for pretending for so long that none of it ever happened." 

Dean hugged him hard and never let go, never stopped rubbing him, or touching him in ways that brought him comfort and a sense of safety. Finally, after Castiel had gathered more of his composure, Dean pushed him out to arm's length and asked, "What can I do?"

"Paint your goddamn boat."

Castiel let out a watery chuckle, and Dean laughed along with him. Then they quieted down again, and Dean rubbed his shoulders with his thumbs. "Dude, I am so, _so_ fucking sorry about your brother. I wish I could say or do something to make it all better. It breaks my goddamn heart to see you hurt like this."

Dean thumbed away a tear, and Castiel didn't say anything. Eventually, they both went back to work on their respective boats. Castiel stole a glance at Dean threading away and whispered, "Just you being here helps."

A sly smile bent Dean's lips. He glanced over. "Can I get that in writing?"

"Get what in writing?"

They both smiled and went back to work. Three minutes must've passed by. Dean started filling in the silence with questions. "What's your brother's name?"

"Jimmy," Castiel answered without thinking.

"You got a picture of him?"

Castiel looked at him. "Why?"

"I don't know. Put a face with a name."

"You're looking at his face, Dean."

Dean crinkled his nose in confusion, then his eyes went wide. "Twins?"

"Identical."

"Show me."

Castiel sighed and gave him a withering look. Dean smiled and slayed any resistance he might've had. With a finger, he indicated to the red photo book on the top shelf. Dean dutifully brought it down and started thumbing through the pictures. Castiel couldn't bear to look. 

"Holy shit. Like, exactly alike."

As if Castiel hadn't noticed, Dean showed him his favorite picture. Him and his brother on the steps leading to the family dock. Little boat in his own hands. "You look so happy here," Dean whispered.

"I was." Castiel painted a stripe on his boat. "That was taken on my birthday. Jimmy had given me that boat as a present. I've been making boats ever since in honor of him."

Dean went quiet. Too quiet. Castiel ignored it for a while until it was too much, then he looked up. Dean was staring at him with that look again—adoration? curiosity? pity?—then closed the book, slipping it away. That mischievous little smirk never left his face. They kept stealing glances at each other. Smiling.

"Paint your boat, Dean," Castiel said, smirking.

"Nah. Not unless you promise to smile more often."

 _That_ brought a smile out of him. Dean grinned triumphantly, as if he were on top of the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm horrible at knowing what to tag for. If you feel there's a tag missing, please leave a comment with your thoughts. Thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> (And thank you to SurlyCat, avyssoseleison, and coplins for the suggestions so far!)


	15. Chapter 15

**DAY: 65**

A hostile takeover was imminent. The deal was going to shit quicker than he could comprehend. 

He slammed the apartment door closed, and it rumbled on its hinges. There, on his white carpet, was Dean's fucking cowboy boots again. Underneath them a stain. With a growl, Castiel picked them up and hurled them against the wall. They thudded and fell lifelessly to the floor, leaving a dent and a deep, dark smudge behind.

In the kitchen, it wasn't much better. No dinner—he was fucking _starving_ —and the dishes were piled high in the sink. _Again_. Fingerprints all over his stainless-steel refrigerator. The TV on too loud. Had Dean regressed in his good behavior? Or, in his stupidity, had Castiel overlooked what had never changed?

He found Dean asleep in his bedroom, his long and lean torso illuminated by New York City's lights beyond the large window. His Captain America boxers, the slight smile on his face... they made him angrier, _seething_. Castiel whipped the sheets off, and Dean snorted awake, looking up at him with wild, startled eyes still addled with sleep.

"Why the fuck are you still asleep, Dean? It's seven o'clock at night!" He didn't let him answer. "I swear to _God_ , if I find those fucking boots on my carpet again, I'm going to burn them. Turn off the fucking TV when you're not using it, for God's sake. And clean up those goddamn dishes!" But he wasn't done. Not in the least. "You're not a fucking child, Dean. I shouldn't have to tell you to clean up after yourself every goddamn day. If you continue to act like my home is your personal garbage dump, I will have Alastair kick you out on your ass. _Tonight_." One more thing. "And don't call my assistant ever again, do you hear me? If you need something, call _me_."

Castiel whirled on his heel and stomped out of the room, slamming the door. It opened again not a second later, and Dean caught his wrist in a too-gentle touch. It disarmed the killing edge of his anger, and he let Dean pull him to his boat room. Dean sat Castiel down on the chair, then turned on the sound system. Soft, soothing violin music from Rachmaninoff's _All-Night Vigil_ filled the small space. For the first time tonight, Castiel took a deep breath. It was cleansing. His anger began to escape from out of his toes.

After a while, Castiel glanced at Dean. Dean was standing next to the sound system, arms crossed, studying him with those green eyes. If Castiel had felt guilt for coming down too hard on him, he didn't show it. If Dean had been angry about it, he didn't show it either. His face was unreadable.

Violin notes knit his nerves back together. Castiel glanced at the sound system, then back at Dean. "Why did you turn that on?"

"Just listen," Dean said quietly.

He did and sat back more in the chair. Comfortable. No longer angry. Just calm and collected. Dean must have noticed because he said, "You want to know why I turned it on?" Before he could answer... "Because it calms you down, Cas." Castiel's eyes widened. "What? You think I don't notice things about you?"

Castiel didn't respond.

"From the way you laid into me in there, I have a sneaking suspicion that the deal you've been talking about went to shit—and I'm sorry about that, I am. But you can't come home and take it out on me. I won't let you."

"But this is my—"

"Yeah, it's your place. But I'm a human being. I have feelings, too. And yeah, I stayed up too late watching stupid shit, and didn't have time to clean up around here or make dinner. I'm sorry. I messed up. Yeah, I fucked up your carpet with my boots. Trust me, I won't do it again. And I'll call the steam cleaners myself."

Castiel downcast his eyes. A tinge of shame pinked his cheeks, he could feel it. That was when Dean shifted the rolling chair to an angle where he could bend down in front of him. Their eyes met.

"Look, dude. I get you're stressed, but being an asshole isn't you. You're so much... _better_ than that, you don't even know." Dean brushed a finger across his cheek. "You know what else I notice about you? How fucking giving you are. Who else would've let in a deadbeat guy like me? Or, hell, paid for some stranger's treatment."

"Dean, I don't need you to flatter me."

"You don't? Because you've had one hell of a shitty day, and I want to make it better."

Castiel let out a breath through his nose. "Fine. Go on."

Dean cracked a small smile. Castiel did, too. " _God_ , Cas. Your smile lights up my entire world. You know that, right? When you're truly happy, and when you think no one's looking, you smile and they are _so_... fucking beautiful. I swear, if those were the only thing I had—nothing else—I'd consider myself a rich man." He brushed his cheekbone again, closer to his eye. "Your eyes are a shade of cobalt blue. You know how I know? I looked it up. You love hamburgers, your car, you kick ass at making boats—and I saw you rocking out to _Shake It Off_ the other day."

"Did not."

"Did too." Dean grinned. "You like Dr. Sexy, but your favorite show is _Say Yes to the Dress_."

"You're being ridiculous."

"Are you totally saying you don't love that show?" Castiel opened his mouth in denial, and Dean cut him off with, "Which dress designer uses a lot of bling and shit?"

Castiel frowned. "They're Swarovski crystal embellishments, _Dean_."

Dean gave him a look, and Castiel looked down, picking at a finger nail. "Pnina Tornai."

"I'm sorry, what? I didn't quite hear you."

"Pnina Tornai," Castiel said louder, glaring at him. Dean flashed him a triumphant grin, then he went on, "You love it rough, but you also like it when I touch you like this"—Dean cupped his face gently, sweeping his thumbs across his cheekbones—"You crave love, but try not to show it because you're too scared. That's why you've never kissed me." Castiel wanted to kiss him now and licked his own lips. "Oh, and you snore."

"I don't snore," Castiel grumbled, savoring Dean's touch.

"Yes, you do." Dean let him go and stood up. "Now, you're going to stay in here until you can come out and play nice."

"Are you—sending me to my room?"

Dean was already out in the hall when he said, "Yep." He closed the door, leaving Castiel to frown deeply and stare at Dean's nearly finished boat. He picked it up and thumbed it lightly. He didn't... crave love. He wasn't _scared_. Castiel huffed and studied the little boat, the green flecks showing through the blue. Dean had noticed so much about him, had figured him out as if he were a paint-by-number drawing. What had he noticed about Dean?

His stubbornness, for one. The bastard still hadn't given his boat one more coat of paint. But his rebelliousness was endearing in a way. It kept him on his feet and prevented him from falling into routine. While Dean was messy, he also tried to please him. Dean was a people-pleaser, Castiel was not, and it was that difference Castiel could appreciate. Castiel crushed and forced his way through life, and usually got his way. Dean charmed, convinced, and let others have theirs. And the way Dean _did_ touch him, even when he hadn't wanted it... Castiel sighed. He admitted to himself right then that he missed those touches, that attention. He missed knowing someone cared about him, that he had someone.

Suddenly, he was incredibly lonely, and the empty room closed in on him. He could hear the TV on again— _Say Yes to the Dress_ , of course—and wanted so much to be out there with him. In the kitchen, music was on, but it wasn't rock and roll like usual. It was Taylor Swift. Dean sang loud and off-key while the dishwasher whirred.

Castiel looked down at the boat again and thumbed it affectionately. Dean was patient and loyal to his family, to him of all people, and gave everyone a chance. Two or three, if necessary. Dean dealt with his shit when he didn't have to, Dean looked ridiculous and adorable in his superhero boxers. Dean was warm and clingy at night the rare times they'd slept together. When Castiel woke up, he was excited to see him. When he went to sleep at night, he was sad that Dean wasn't there with him. Dean was his everything when he was home. Work was empty, sterile, and heartless without him.

 _Fuck_.

He was in love with him.

Castiel set the boat down gingerly. He came out of the room, tiptoeing, hoping to skirt by Dean and hide in his bedroom. He couldn't face him. Not right now. Not when he had wounds to lick. As always, Dean ruined his plans. He popped out of the kitchen with flour on his cheek, grin on his face. "You hungry?"

Castiel looked at the hallway that led to his room. Then at Dean, the flour, and his Iron Man boxers. If he didn't believe it before, he had to now: he was in love with Dean Winchester. His heart pounded hard in his chest, and warmth pooled in his gut. When he was with Dean, he was truly _happy_.

"What do you say? Chicken parmesan?" Dean wiggled his eyebrows. 

Castiel sighed with resignation. "Yes."

"You're going to love it. I promise." Dean winked and disappeared into the kitchen.

 _I already do_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm horrible at knowing what to tag for. If you feel there's a tag missing, please leave a comment with your thoughts. Thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> (And thank you to SurlyCat, avyssoseleison, and coplins for the suggestions so far!)


	16. Chapter 16

**DAY: 88**

The following few weeks stayed the same. They ate dinner together when Castiel came home from work and ended their evenings with Dr. Sexy or _Say Yes to the Dress_. Sometimes, until the early hours of morning. They fucked relentlessly, then slept in different beds. Castiel woke up to Dean singing off-key, superhero boxers, and breakfast. Most of the time, Dean kept his promise and picked up after himself. Almost nothing had changed.

Almost.

Each time Dean brushed against his skin, he fell more and more in love with him. Each smile, silly joke, every note of his laugh, made Castiel lose control. If he was at home, he was by Dean's side. He thought about him while he was at work. Dreamt about him at night. He was lost on everything Dean Winchester.

Which was why, two weeks away from their agreed upon 90 days, he felt as if a part of him was dying. Dean stopped making them dinner every night. The TiVo was almost full with unwatched episodes of Dr. Sexy and _Say Yes to the Dress_. They stopped fucking. Every night, Dean escaped to the boat room. Castiel only saw him briefly—a flash of superhero boxers, an inch of flesh—when Dean scurried away.

Had Dean abandoned him? Was this, in fact, just a deal? 

Was Dean slipping away from him?

Somehow, he'd lost Dean, he was sure of it. The Dean that made his world whole and his heart tick. The Dean that would touch him for no reason at all or wink at him just because. The man he'd fallen helplessly in love with.

It hurt.

He was lost.

Suffocating.

He stopped sleeping at night. When the nightmares came, when he couldn't fall back asleep, he watched the clock until daylight. Panic attacks shredded his sanity. Morning, afternoon, night, they'd come and render him a broken shell of a man. Food wasn't appealing anymore, and the weight fell off him quicker than he could comprehend. Work wasn't any better. He kept making stupid obvious mistakes, which Gabriel caught gracefully then questioned his judgment. On the Internet, he researched "depression," took a quiz, and fit all the requirements.

He was depressed, heartbroken, scared shitless—the same way when he'd lost Jimmy.

Castiel mourned what he thought he and Dean used to be: friends. Lovers. Vulnerable, wounded, _changed_ , he retreated inside his own mind and vowed to protect himself. It was over. He'd never let Dean hurt him again.

One Saturday morning, two days away from the end of their deal, Dean crept into his room like a thief and smiled when he noticed Castiel was wide awake. Up until two weeks ago, Castiel always smiled at him in the mornings. Today, he didn't smile back. Dean must've noticed the change because he sat down at the edge of his bed and asked, "Rough night?"

"Maybe."

Dean grinned. "I know what will make you feel better. Come on."

Castiel sighed heavily when Dean grabbed his wrist and tugged him up. Weary, heartsore, Castiel let Dean pull him into the living room—while savoring every touch Dean spent on him. 

Dean sat him down, patted his thighs, said, "Stay here," and disappeared into another room. When he came back, he was holding two...

Presents.

"A little bird told me it was your birthday," Dean said.

Castiel stared at him blankly.

"Remember when you yelled at me for calling your assistant a while back? Well—" Dean shrugged, grinning.

"You asked my assistant when my birthday was? You could've asked _me_."

"And ruin the surprise?"

Dean smiled at him cheekily and sat down next to him on the couch. He handed Castiel the first present. It was medium-sized and horribly wrapped in brightly colored Happy Birthday paper. Castiel eyed him warily and when Dean grinned at him, he carefully opened it. Inside was a glass bottle, a blue-green boat nestled inside. The USS Castiel sat on hand-made waves, brave and beautiful in the oncoming storm.

"It took me forever to finish it. I'm sorry I ignored you for the past two weeks, but I had a deadline to make."

That's why Dean had pulled away: he was making a gift. For _him_.

"I..." Castiel swallowed hard. His eyes misted. "I love it, Dean."

"Even though I didn't give it one last coat of paint?"

"Especially because you didn't give it one last coat of paint," he whispered. He thumbed the glass. If Dean wasn't watching him, studying him so closely, he'd let his tears fall. Tears of utter _relief_.

"That's just the beginning, birthday boy," Dean said, handing him a second present.

This one was thinner, light weight, with the same awful wrapping paper. Castiel opened it carefully. Two identical little faces stared up at him, smiling, at the foot of the stairs leading to their parents dock. In his hand, he held a little boat. Teeth missing. Happy. Together.

The picture was in a beautiful frame, with a wooden decal of a boat in the lower left-hand corner. Castiel held it in his hands and stared at it, letting a tear fall one by one to splatter on the glass. Dean thumbed one of them away on his cheek and said, "I thought you might want to put it somewhere. Maybe on the mantel, so you could see him every day. Remember the good times you two had."

Castiel nodded dumbly, brushing a finger over Jimmy's face. Dean was right. Jimmy shouldn't be hidden away like a secret, but shown to the world. Celebrated. Not mourned.

Carefully, Castiel set the framed picture aside. He looked up at Dean, really looked at him. His beautiful face, his freckles, the charm of his smile. Castiel had given him _so much power_ , and with it, Dean could destroy him. Just like his father had. He promised himself he'd never go through that pain again. If he ever lost Dean later down the road when he was in too deep... If Dean stopped loving him...

"Do you like your presents?"

"Yes."

Dean nodded, then looked down and wrung his hands. Nervousness shuddered along Dean's body, he could feel it, and Dean cleared his throat. "Uh, I plan to pick up Sam on Monday. Dr. Mills says he's completed his treatment." Dean took a breath and looked at him with those gorgeous green eyes. "Will you come with me?"

"Yes, Dean," he whispered, defeated. "Of course."

Dean grinned, but he didn't. Castiel had come to a decision.

Their time had run out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm horrible at knowing what to tag for. If you feel there's a tag missing, please leave a comment with your thoughts. Thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> (And thank you to SurlyCat, avyssoseleison, and coplins for the suggestions so far!)


	17. Chapter 17

**DAY: 89**

There was more... gravity to their routine the night before they were scheduled to pick up Sam. Dean tried to keep the conversation light and upbeat during dinner—hamburgers, both their favorite—but it felt flat. Forced. Like he knew what was coming but didn't have the strength to face it. Dread and nervousness skittered under his own skin like a nest of spiders. It was like waiting for a terminally ill family member to die. Hurry up. Get it over with. Castiel needed this to end. He needed to mourn, then he needed to get over it.

They watched Dr. Sexy together, not saying a word. Not even Dean's favorite character, Dr. Samson, announcing she had an inoperable brain tumor elicited a gasp from Dean. He sat there, staring blankly at the TV. Off in his own little world.

When it was over, they ended up in the same bed together. Thinking about them, the end, Castiel missed the vital transition from standing to lying, from clothed to naked, from a separation of their bodies to warm soft skin touching his own. He lay there on his stomach while Dean prepared behind him. The squirt of lube. The impatient press of Dean's cock at his hole. When Dean finally breached, Castiel called out, but not in pain. In _sorrow_. Because all of this would be over tomorrow. Because he'd lose Dean and he'd be alone.

And as always, Dean noticed.

Dean began to feather his skin with light touches, and Castiel let him. Over his arm, up to his shoulder blade, fluttering them over the back of his neck. There, he traded in his fingertips with kisses. His lips brushed the knob of his spine, then up again, into his hair and around to his earlobe. Castiel let Dean have all of him. He savored every powerful thrust of his hips and shuddered under gentle touches. This moment was all they had left. 

He gave into him a little more, molding against his back against the curve of Dean's chest. Dean snuck an arm across him and wrapped the other around his waist, hugging him so fucking tightly that Castiel knew he would never let go. The brush of lips against his ear—it tore him apart with _longing_.

"You don't know how much you destroy me, do you?"

"Dean..."

It was a plead— _keep going, make love to me_ —but Dean must've heard it differently. Dean dug his nails into flesh, clinging, and fucked him harder until the force of his thrusts were the only thing making Castiel breathe. There was pain and violence in every one, but he didn't care. Dean was in denial, fighting back tomorrow—and he could feel it every time Dean snapped his hips. 

Castiel reached back with a shuddery breath and entwined his fingers in Dean's hair. Their rhythm slowed. It was slow then, gentle, and Dean found refuge in the meaty part of his shoulder. There was a soft brush of lips before Dean inhaled deeply. His sweat, the fading notes of that cologne Dean loved so much—Dean's deep, low groan vibrated against his skin. Wetness drooled down his inner thigh, and it was all he needed. Castiel came with the brush of his fingertips against the head of his cock—and Dean grabbed him, fingers around his, and stroked him through his orgasm. 

Exhausted, they fell into separate pieces on the bed. There was silence, deafening, suffocating, then Dean touched his shoulder, like a thread of hope in the darkness.

"Cas?"

Castiel didn't answer. He breathed rhythmically, feigning sleep, and Dean rolled over to his side of the bed. Without his touch, without _Dean_ , the sheets were cold and felt like loneliness against his skin. 

If he slept at all, he dreamt of Dean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm horrible at knowing what to tag for. If you feel there's a tag missing, please leave a comment with your thoughts. Thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> (And thank you to SurlyCat, avyssoseleison, and coplins for the suggestions so far!)


	18. Chapter 18

**DAY: 90**

The mattress had come alive under him. Warm, hugging him close... _breathing_. Castiel nuzzled his face into... something soft, smelling of an earthiness he'd know anywhere, and woke up to find Dean's arms around him— _no_ , that they were completely entwined in _each other_. Their legs, their arms woven together, both of them clinging as if their world would begin to crumble at the first light of day. 

Castiel lay still, listening to the rhythm of Dean's heart under his ear. It wasn't the happy lull he wish he'd had the chance to listen to before, but a skittered thumping. Like he was nervous—and _awake_. Castiel feigned sleep as Dean nosed his forehead, brushing the skin there with a kiss and another on his nose. He leaned his cheek against Castiel's head, and Castiel wanted this moment to last forever. Just them. Warm and safe. Together.

The alarm clock ripped them apart.

Dean disentangled himself first, and Castiel yawned wide, stretched, and pretended they hadn't held each other through the night. Dean didn't say anything besides a "good morning," slinking into the bathroom quicker than Castiel could respond. The shower turned on, and he wanted to join him, but it was too late for that. He stared at the door and let himself pretend it was just another day. Dean would come out in a fluffy towel, comment on the shower's amazing water pressure again, and get dressed. He'd make them breakfast, and Castiel would read the morning paper, complain about his job while Dean listened.

When Dean got out of the shower, everything was different. That charming smile—the one he'd grown to love—wasn't on Dean's lips. His green eyes and face told a different story today. They painted a sad, forlorn picture with a downcast, faraway expression. When their eyes finally met, Dean offered him a whisper of a smile and left the bedroom. Not saying a word.

After they'd dressed, had a small breakfast of toast and jelly, they climbed into Castiel's Mercedes and drove off into the rurals of New York, toward Provenance Rehabilitation Center. Dreary clouds hung over them. The shadowed trees looked like mourning funeral-goers. They didn't talk. Violin music didn't fill the car.

They had arrived in one piece, and Provenance stretched wide and calm in front of them. As soon as Castiel killed the engine, Dean yanked the door open and fled—tearing and taking a piece of his soul with him. Castiel got out slowly and leaned against the hood of his car. He waited. His stomach had sunken low, full of anxieties, and his heart had crawled up into his throat. He took in a lungful of clean woodsy air.

This was it.

Sam came out long and lanky with his brother at his side. They were all smiles and laughter, patting each other roughly on the back as brothers do. Castiel squared his shoulders and straightened his spine. When Dean looked at him, Dean's face immediately fell. No more smiles. No laughter. He knew.

Like a clueless puppy, Sam came barreling over and hugged him tight. Castiel didn't know how to respond. He kept his arms at his sides, his eyes never once wavering from Dean. Dean shook his head once, mouthed _please_ , and then put on a fake smile when Sam looked at him. Sam's big eyes returned to him a second later. His smile too. "Hey, Castiel."

"Hello, Sam." Castiel nodded. "How are you feeling?"

"Fantastic, thanks to you," Sam beamed. "Listen, I didn't get a chance to thank you—"

"It's all right. No thanks needed." Castiel looked at Dean. "I did what I had to."

Dean stepped forward and grabbed Sam's arm. "Hey, Sammy. Give Cas and me a minute."

Sam looked between the two of them, then nodded. "Yeah, okay."

Castiel watched Sam walk away, lugging his duffel bag over his strong shoulder. He looked well with a healthy color to his skin, his posture straighter, his head held high. If nothing else, he'd done a good thing. He helped a boy become a man. Sam would live a long, happy life and with Dean at his side, he'd conquer the world.

He let his eyes find Dean again. Beautiful, loyal Dean. Even now, Dean's jaw tightened in denial, his green eyes glinting with something he couldn't place. Anger, maybe. Sadness behind it.

"Cas..."

Castiel handed him a card. Dean took it and his eyes went wide. "A taxi? Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Have them come pick you and Sam up."

"Why can't we go in your car, Cas?" Rhetorical. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"We had our arrangement—"

"Are you... _fucking_ kidding me?" Dean studied him for a while, the hard lines in his face, the tightness of his lips. He swallowed hard. "Fuck our 'arrangement,' Cas. We have something _real_ here."

_We do._

_We did._

Castiel let out an impatient sigh. "Don't make this harder than it has to be."

"Make _what_ harder?"

"The end."

Dean stared at him blankly, then began shaking his head, jaw clenched tight, his denial a living, breathing _thing_. "The end?" He let out a scoff. "So, what? You're just gonna... throw everything we had away?"

Castiel thinned his lips. "What could we have possibly had, Dean?"

"A fucking life together, that's what. You and me, fighting the odds. Dr. Sexy. Hamburgers. _Pie_." Dean took a harsh breath. "You feeling safe after all the fucking shit you've been through in your life. Hell, finally _knowing_ you deserve to be loved, for fuck's sake. That's what we had!"

"We had none of those things—"

"Bull-fucking-shit, Cas, and you know it," Dean growled. He ran a hand down his face, then looked at him. Green eyes picked him apart. "What's got you so spooked, huh? That you might _actually_ be happy with me?" 

_That you'll hurt me..._

"This is _over_ , Dean," Castiel hissed. " _We're_ over."

"No."

Castiel flinched. "What?"

"You heard me: I said no." Dean got close, and Castiel didn't have the courage to back up. "I'm not gonna let you ruin the one chance you have at being happy. Fuck, Cas, this is my chance too. We're in this together."

"No, we're _not_ ," Castiel growled. "We were never in anything, _Dean_. This was just another fucking deal—" Dean opened his mouth to argue again, but Castiel cut him off. "Do you think I'd ever be with someone like you? A fuck-up? A man who can't even get a fucking job? Dean, you can't even take care of the person you love most. Why would I _ever_ trust someone like you to make me happy? You'd only let me down."

"I haven't yet," Dean fired back almost effortlessly. "Name one time I let you down or haven't been there when you needed me." At Castiel's silence... "You can't, because I've been there every. single. fucking. time. No matter what—"

"Only because of Sam."

"Yeah, at first. In the beginning, it was all about the deal... then I got to know you. Not the dick at the office, but the real you, Cas. The Cas that loves my hamburgers and my horrible singing. The Cas that would be happy if he'd just let himself _breathe_ for once. _That_ Cas. The Cas I fell in lo—"

"Dean!" Castiel shouted. "It's _over_!"

Dean tightened his lips, working his jaw and staring at him hard. Thinking. Deciding if he'd continue to fight or lay down and take it. After a while, the truth and gravity of the situation showed on his face. Where there was once denial, there was now sadness. A revelation. _Reality_. It was over. Dean knew it too.

"This ain't you," Dean whispered. "You don't want this. You _can't_ want this."

"This was just another deal," Castiel reiterated. "Nothing more."

"You're a horrible fucking liar, you know that?" Dean growled. "You know how I know you're full of shit?"

"Dean—"

"The way you look at me, Cas. I can see it in your fucking eyes. Still can, even now. The way you let me touch you sometimes..." Dean took in a deep breath then swallowed. His jaw clenched. "Fuck, Cas, we held each other through the night. You don't think that means something?"

"I need your key."

Dean chewed the inside of his lip. His green eyes were brighter, a sheen of wetness over them. Dean shook his head and whispered, "Don't you... fucking do this to me, man. I lo—"

"Dean!" Castiel hissed. He didn't want to hear it. Couldn't. "Give me your fucking key."

Dean worked his jaw again, staring at him hard with those green eyes. The same green eyes that had made him melt more times than he could count. The same ones that knew him even when he himself didn't. They judged him quietly, boring into his skull, trying to pick apart his insides piece by broken piece. When Dean moved again, Dean stabbed his hand into his pocket, took out the key, and looked at it, running a thumb over its cool metal. His expression had turned grim. Like reality had finally and completely laid him out. 

Their fingers touched when Castiel took it.

"You can pick up your motorcycle while I'm at work. Only then. Call ahead and let Alastair know you're coming."

He wanted— _needed_ —to say so much more but turned away, taking a single step toward his car. Dean grabbed his arm before he could escape and spun him around roughly. Dean's face had changed. No more anger, but determination. No tears. Just promise.

"If you think I'm just gonna take this laying down, you're wrong. If you think, for one second, I'm not going to try and convince you _every day_ for the _rest of my life_ that I'm crazy about you—that we fucking _belong_ together—you've got another thing coming, man."

His intensity made him wobble back a step. The heat in his voice, the passion, the touch on his arm—it was enough to crack the ice he'd built around himself but not enough to break it. Castiel looked at him, really looked at him, and saw the man he loved—but couldn't dare himself to have. If Dean tired of him, if he ever _lost_ him...

"Dean," he whispered. "Please... I need you to let me go."

"Why? Because you're scared of this? Of _us_? Fuck no." Dean took a deep breath. "Castiel Sant'Angelo, I swear to God, I'll make you the happiest man on Earth if you just _let me_."

_I can't._

Fear hardened over and steeled his resolve. Castiel straightened his posture, scowled, and yanked his arm out of Dean's gasp. "We're done, Dean. Our agreement is null and void." Castiel glanced at Sam. "Your brother needs you. Don't fuck it up this time."

Dean frowned and raised his hands in surrender. "Fine, Cas. Have it your way. I'll walk away and go on home. But I'll tell you one thing, one thing for sure—" 

Castiel froze as Dean stepped in close, his sudden heat intimate. Familiar. _Safe_. He hardly noticed that Dean had cupped his face, that his thumbs swept soft arcs over his cheekbones. He couldn't think. Breathe. Comprehend, that even now, Dean chose to throw caution to the wind, lean in... and kiss his cheek, sweet and gentle, just like Dean always was. Castiel closed his eyes as lips brushed his ear, the words—

"I'm not gonna give up on you. I ain't that kinda man."

—more beautiful than all the violins in the world.

He stood there, unable to move, long after Dean had turned and walked toward his brother. Sam took one look at Dean, then shot him a glare, stampeding over before Dean had the will to stop him.

"You promised not to hurt him."

"I didn't promise anything at all," Castiel breathed out.

Sam flinched then studied his face. Searching, prying open his fragile pieces. "You don't want to do this."

"I _have to_ , Sam."

Castiel turned, got inside his car, and started the engine. Sam yelled his name, but it was drowned in the growl of his Mercedes as he sped off toward the highway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm horrible at knowing what to tag for. If you feel there's a tag missing, please leave a comment with your thoughts. Thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> (And thank you to SurlyCat, avyssoseleison, and coplins for the suggestions so far!)


	19. Chapter 19

**DAY: 97**

A week passed. 

Castiel threw himself into his work, slaving over the Draper-Larkin acquisition every day into the late hours of the night. Draper-Larkin had anticipated his client's plan to take over the company and sought out a new avenue to save it: Hollett, Inc.—the proverbial white knight to his black. 

Late Monday evening, he slunk home with his tail between his legs. He numbly got out of his car once he reached home and passed Alastair's security desk without so much as a glance. The elevator opened up to him like a lover might and closed with a snap that'd crush bones. It had never felt so... confining as it did now, like a mirrored coffin, rumbling its way up to his apartment's floor. He didn't look at his reflection—who knew what sort of monster he might find in its spotless shine. 

When the doors finally opened, eerie quiet welcomed him. It was desolate this time of night, and the hallways seemed to echo with each step he took. Each beat of his heart was louder somehow, more hollow. Dean's name whispered in every one hadn't been so clear until now.

He ignored the shadows and the way they closed in on him. Grounded himself by clutching Dean's key inside his pea coat's pocket. The metal bit into his skin as he dragged himself toward the place he used to call home. Except now, home was just a space filled with furniture and expensive paintings. It hadn't been the same since—

Castiel slowed his pace, eyeing the unknown package in front of his door. White bag, familiar in a way yet completely foreign. Had Alastair left something for him? He approached it as if it were a rabid animal. Slow even steps brought him closer and closer, until... He sniffed the air. It smelled _good_ , and his stomach burbled and groaned. It was _food_. More importantly, _Chinese food_.

He grabbed the bag by the handles and looked at it in all different directions. Chinese food, plain and simple. Complicated because it was sweet and sour chicken. He could smell the thick, goopy syrup, almost taste it on his lips. The cartons of food were a little cold, meaning they'd been there for a while. Meaning Dean _had been here_ —who else could it have possibly been?—and he'd missed him.

_Dean..._

His heart bled, his chest _ached_. What he wouldn't have given to see Dean again—what he wouldn't do to prevent that from ever happening again. 

Castiel swallowed hard and pulled out his keys, stepping forward to unlock the door—and nearly tripping over _something else_. Annoyed, Castiel looked down. It was the same boxed brand of shitty wine Dean had brought to their first... date. If he'd had a smile on his face, it quickly died. 

He wouldn't admit just how much he missed him.

It was quiet inside the apartment and entirely too clean. Dean's boots weren't on the carpet, no stain, and an ache followed him through the hallway, to the kitchen where the dishes were untouched and put away in their cabinets. No fingerprints on his stainless steel refrigerator. No pie inside. Everything was immaculate. Perfect. 

_Wrong_.

The living room wasn't alive anymore. The TV hung on the wall, dead and silent, and the couch sat listless and uninviting. Dean wasn't there to ask him how his day had been. He couldn't complain and whine about the deal he'd lost. There was no one to walk around in hideous superhero boxers, and he couldn't discreetly fall asleep on Dean, then pretend he didn't know how it'd happened. Dean wasn't a part of his life anymore.

It fucking _hurt_.

Castiel ate his Chinese food from the carton that night, watching _Say Yes to the Dress_. He drank deeply from the wine box when a bride's terminally ill dad made it just long enough to watch his baby girl walk down the aisle. Alone, missing Dean until he felt raw, Castiel wiped a tear away and drowned himself in shitty take-out. He didn't sleep much that night, but when he did, Dean smiled at him in his dreams.

:::

**DAY: 107**

They stared at each other over the chessboard. The New York City sky had grown dark, cold, and threatened rain. Joshua gave him a toothless smile, which only spelled the end for him. As the first fat raindrops began to fall, Joshua slid his white knight into place. _Check mate_.

Castiel flopped back in his chair in defeat. He ignored the way a raindrop slipped cold and steady down his spine, didn't bother to look up even when Joshua seemed to shift just outside his vision. When Castiel finally did, he was met with that same grin and an outstretched hand. Cupped inside was the piece Joshua had just slaughtered him with; the white knight, beautiful yet cruel in all its glory.

He shot him a glare.

"Keep it."

Joshua grinned while Castiel gawked at the only two words he had ever said. 

:::

Castiel walked into his office wing soaked to the bone. His assistant took one look at him and jumped to her feet, blurted out, "Good morning, Mr. Sant'Angelo," and gave him her best smile. 

He nodded at her and breezed by, fully intending on hiding in his office for the rest of the day. There'd be a post-mortem meeting later with the heads of the company to discuss the failed Draper-Larkin acquisition. His mind whirled with the possibilities, and he didn't hear his assistant run down his day until she said, "—and there was something delivered to you this morning."

He stopped and turned. "What something?"

"I don't know, sir. A package. There was... no return address."

"Thank you, Hannah."

Her small smile broke into a wide grin. She looked as if she were about to explode.

He studied her a moment then asked, "What is it?"

"It's just..." Hannah smiled again, her happiness radiating out of her. "You remembered my name."

Castiel thinned his lips and thought about it. "Yes." He nodded. "Yes, I guess I did." Castiel turned away from her, then added over his shoulder, "Thank you for all your hard work, Hannah."

"You're very welcome, Mr. Sant'Angelo."

He shut the door on her giggle and excited paper shuffling. The world fell away as he zoned in on the package waiting on his desk. Another tentative walk over and it was in his hands, inspected in every possible way. It was nondescript, a plain white box with something loose inside. No address at all, to or from. It had been hand-delivered by someone who knew the building. Knew _him_.

Castiel tore at the box. Inside was a little wooden boat, painted blue. He knew the name of the paint color—cobalt blue—and smiled. The boat, the Chinese food, the shitty wine; all little tokens of Dean's loyalty and affection, little reminders that Dean existed, and that Dean hadn't given up on him. 

He sat back in his chair, turning the boat around and around in his hands. 

If Dean could only see the smile on his face now.

:::

The afternoon's meeting thankfully hadn't ended with him being fired. His team, especially Gabriel, steered them away from dolling out consequences and put the responsibility of losing the deal unquestionably on the client's shoulders. He blew out a sigh of relief as he headed home.

Inside his apartment, Castiel turned on the TV just to have some noise. To pretend, just for a moment, that Dean was on the coach watching it while Castiel puttered around in the kitchen, making himself something to eat. 

After dinner, Castiel headed for his boat room, stopping just short of the door. He hadn't been inside in nearly two weeks, avoiding it because he didn't want to be reminded of Dean—which hadn't worked. Green grass reminded him of Dean. He remembered each place they fucked—every room in the apartment—and thought of him at work. His mind, heart, and soul wouldn't give him up. It hurt. He was dying, but he'd survive.

He hoped.

The boat room was the same. Tidy, clean, just as Dean had left it. He kept the door open so he could hear the TV, and sat down in his chair. He placed Dean's present from this morning on the desk, leaned back in his chair and smiled at it. Then, his eyes drifted up, to the boat Jimmy had made him, to Dean's—

Castiel narrowed his eyes and stood up. Something new... covered in a thin film of dust, just like everything else. It was a glass bottle with a boat inside, with a small white card leaned up against it. He took both of them down and sat in his chair, studying them. The proud little boat rode choppy waves. It was painted black, lined with silver, with massive, beautiful sails, all white and gleaming. Castiel held it while he read the card. 

It was dated the night before they had picked Sam up from Provenance.

_Cas,_

_I figured the USS Cas could use a wingman on those treacherous waters, so I made him a buddy: a USS Dean. Corny, huh? I hope you like it._

_Your wingman,_

_Dean_

Castiel clenched his jaw and blinked a few times, letting the ache die down. In small lettering, _just in case_ was printed on the lower right-hand corner, with an arrow pointing to the edge of the card. He flipped it over. It was an address he didn't know under Sam and Dean's name.

He looked at the boat, the address, and then the boat again. The TV chattered from the other room, and he imagined Dean there, laughing at the dumb commercials and even dumber shows. He thought of his smile, his warmth, his _touch_... and contemplated the sheer amount of _emptiness_ in his chest, the hopeless nothingness in his _life_. He flipped the white card in his hand, his eyes never leaving Dean's boat.

What the fuck was he afraid of?

Of loving Dean so much he could hardly breathe, getting himself in too deep, then losing him, his mind supplied. If he fucked everything up, lost Dean for good, he'd feel that incredible loss all over again. The panic attacks. Not eating or sleeping. It'd affect his job, he might lose it, then where would he be? Homeless like Joshua? Except Joshua always seemed so... happy.

Castiel leaned forward and clutched his head. Everything was so confusing, so fucking frightening that he felt the very edges of his brain crumbling. A panic attack began to creep in at him from the shadows, and his breathing began to stutter like a flickering light bulb. Desperate, he grabbed the tiny boat Dean had delivered today, a piece of paper, a pen...

When he came out of his panic attack, exhausted, his hand hurting, he looked down. He'd held onto the boat so hard it made a boat-shaped mark in his skin, the paper on the desk filled with words he didn't remember writing. He sat there and read them as the last remnants of his panic attack disappeared. Again and again. Over and over.

 _Take a chance_ covered every white space he could no longer see.

Facing a future without Dean in it was more frightening than taking a chance and living what may be the happiest days he'd ever had in his life. The resolution to the chance of losing Dean had been simple all along: if he didn't want to lose Dean, he'd have to work hard, harder than he ever had, to ensure he wouldn't lose him.

A _real_ , loving relationship. 

Castiel blinked hard. He'd been blind, stupid, and had let fear rule his life. Dean wasn't like everyone else who had hurt him. He wasn't Inias or Jimmy. Dean wasn't his father. The man who wore superhero boxers, touched him sweetly and never gave up on him had loved him just the way he was—and Castiel hadn't given him a real chance.

He faced his mistake with a shuddering breath. His boat room stared back at him suddenly with the eyes of a monster. The TV in the living room sounded lifeless without Dean there to laugh at the shows, his whole apartment and his expensive things worthless without Dean to share them with.

His heart and soul was missing the one thing that would complete him. 

Castiel grabbed the little white card, his keys, and stormed out of the apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm horrible at knowing what to tag for. If you feel there's a tag missing, please leave a comment with your thoughts. Thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> (And thank you to SurlyCat, avyssoseleison, and coplins for the suggestions so far!)


	20. Chapter 20

**DAY: 107**

Dean and Sam lived in rundown Jersey City, in a small rowhouse exhausted from age. The wooden railing leading up to the weathered door had chipped paint in areas, rotting wood in others. The only thing alive was a small garden plant outside, and a welcome mat told him that they'd settled in long enough to give the place some Winchester charm. He stood there in the rain contemplating these things, delaying the inevitable. Dean lay on the other side of the door. All he had to do was knock. 

He glanced down at the card, studied it before putting it in his pea coat's pocket. A brush of metal—Dean's key—calmed him while the dreary weather made him shiver with the chill and rain. Anticipation gnawed at his bones. With a tight breath, Castiel reached out and knocked, then he waited, standing there awkwardly, shifting from foot to foot. From inside, he heard steps in the entryway, and when the door opened—

Dean stood there in a threadbare black T-shirt and loose-fitting jeans. His toes weren't peeking out from holes, but tucked safe and warm inside the socks Castiel had bought him. They wiggled hello, and Castiel looked up. Freckles, those kissable lips... that breathtaking smile, even the flour on his cheek—he was taken aback by how... utterly beautiful Dean was. Everything about Dean was home to him.

While Dean's smile said everything— _Hi, I love you, Welcome home_ —Castiel shuffled his feet again. His nerves contended with the bite of the chilly air, with the heavenly smell of apple pie coming from inside. He wanted to run again, hide, never come back. Or stay, go inside, and never come out. He didn't know, and he shifted again with indecision. Dean was patient, always patient, and waited. 

Finally, with enough courage, he looked up through his dark eyelashes to say, "Hello, Dean," before dropping his eyes again. Like an ashamed little boy who'd run away from home only to come back an hour later. Dean stepped out and hooked a finger under his chin, raising it up. Raindrops kissed Dean's skin, his hair, and his smile warmed him all the way through. "Hey, sweetheart."

His southern drawl melted him as if he were butter. Castiel closed his eyes to savor the gentle touch to his chin. Dean thumbed it and pulled away, and Castiel was suddenly colder and emptier. When Castiel forced his eyes open, Dean was still there, leaning comfortably against the door jamb, as easy and cool as a man who had nothing to lose. Castiel tore his eyes away, up to the rowhouse and the now-faded details that had once made it beautiful. Despite its imperfections, it was a perfect little home tucked away and hidden from New York City's chaos.

"Uncle Bobby is loaning it to us until we get on our feet," Dean explained. "It doesn't have those sweeping city views you have, but—" Dean patted the facade affectionately. "It'll do."

Castiel nodded and squinted up at him through the rain. "Where's Sam?"

"Out on a date."

Castiel narrowed his eyes, confused.

"She's a nurse at Provenance. Jessica. Sweet kid."

Castiel nodded again and stood there, adrift. How could he tell Dean he'd fucked up? That all he wanted was them, together, for as long as they could stand each other. Fuck, that he _loved_ him. He let his eyes find Dean again, and Dean's smile had turned from warm to positively... shit-eating. He leaned there against the door jamb, oozing into it, crossing his arms over his chest, and tipped his head at him. 

"So... two weeks, huh?" Dean chuckled. "Took you long enough to realize you're crazy about me."

Dean flashed him that grin he hated, and Castiel frowned. He regretted coming and turned away, only to be whipped back by the wrist and yanked inside. They found themselves chest to chest against the dividing wall that separated the home from the entryway. They breathed in the same air, their lips inches from touching. Castiel took in a fractured breath, and Dean tightened his arm around his waist. He wasn't going anywhere. He didn't want to.

"I lost you once, Cas. I ain't gonna let that happen again."

Castiel nodded dumbly, dazed and compliant. The smell of him—cinnamon, vanilla, a few notes of faded cologne—lulled him to liquid against him, and Dean smiled, carding his fingers through his hair. He kept it longer now, more out of laziness than anything else, and Dean seemed pleased with it. He couldn't stop touching it. His fingers brushed against the little curls that had formed at his neckline. Then, Dean migrated his touch to his mouth and dragged a thumb gently across his bottom lip. Castiel grew thick in his slacks. If Dean had noticed, he didn't react.

"Why'd you push me away?" His eyes couldn't have been more green.

"I was scared," Castiel said without thinking.

"Why?" Dean kept touching him like he couldn't believe he was actually there. Brushing his cheek with gentle fingers, marveling over his jaw line with a thumb. Everything was harder—thinking, his dick—and Castiel couldn't make heads or tails out of anything. 

After a while, Dean whispered, "Cas, I ain't never gonna hurt you, okay? So whatever you're thinking—that I'd leave you, find someone else, whatever—that ain't gonna happen."

"Yet... you already had a place picked out."

It was Dean's turn to frown in confusion. Castiel fished out the white card and lifted it up with two fingers. Dean eyed it, then studied his face again. With how close Dean was, his warmth, his _everything_ , he didn't want to talk anymore. He wanted to crawl into Dean's bed and never come out.

"I had a plan B. Just in case you... you know..." _Kicked me out_. "You gotta admit, Cas. I was right."

He had been right. Dean's instincts had led him to make a plan B. Guilt and shame welled up inside him. Castiel opened his mouth, but no words came out. His throat was like sandpaper, dry and coarse. He swallowed and tried again. "Dean..."

"Hm?" Dean rubbed his cheek against his. His two-day stubble prickled against his skin, and Castiel blanked out, closing his eyes, taking in everything Dean Winchester. "What is it, Cas?"

"I'm sorry for kicking you out. For pushing you away. For—" Dean kissed his collarbone. "— _fuck_... everything."

"Yeah?" Dean continued to explore, kissing the side of his neck up to his earlobe. Castiel shuddered against him, his hips jutting forward on reflex. Dean chuckled, and the sound trembled against his skin. "How sorry?"

"Very sorry," Castiel whispered as Dean teethed his ear.

"'You can do whatever you want to me' sorry?"

"Yes," Castiel said breathlessly.

"Anything I want?"

" _Yes_ , Dean," he growled.

Dean pulled his head back and grinned, eyeing his lips. Dear _God_ , he wanted Dean to kiss him. They hovered close, Dean's lips just millimeters from his own. His skin burned with jittery excitement, of _finally_ , when Dean leaned in, a hair's breadth away from sealing their mouths together. The cocky smile came first, then Dean stuck a finger between them, pressing it over Castiel's mouth. "First..."

It took every fiber of his being not to punch him.

"We gotta sort out this—" Dean indicated both of them with fingers. "—between us." Dean stopped him from commenting with a hand. "Now, I know you didn't imagine yourself with a loser like me, but I swear, Cas, I swear I'll work every day to make you the happiest you've ever been. I promise to stick by you through anything—sickness, health. Shit, even your stinky feet."

"I don't have stinky feet, _Dean_ ," Castiel hissed.

"Oh yes, you do. Trust me. You do."

"How dare you," Castiel grumped, indignant.

"Hey, I still love them. Just gotta air 'em out a little," Dean whispered against his skin.

Any comeback he had died in his throat. Dean dragged his lips up his neck, into his hair, while his hands skirted his thighs, fingers drawing up to his hips. Castiel took in a sharp breath and whispered, "Dean... what are you doing?"

"Anything I want."

The rumble of his voice tickled his spine—then everything stopped. Dean's kisses fell away and his body was suddenly naked without Dean's touch. Dean inched back a little, face full of confusion, then brought something up to his face. "What's this?"

It was the white knight Joshua had given him, taken out of his pocket. Dean studied it, and Castiel couldn't help but watch him do it. His eyes bounced from the piece to Dean's face, every freckle to wooden lacquer. Then it struck him like lightning might—

Dean was his white knight. The man who'd scaled up his walls and snuck into his heart. The gentle stream that'd cut through his mountain of defenses.

His beautiful stranger.

Castiel barely reacted when Dean put the piece back in his hand. Could only concentrate on the love Dean had shown him over the last few months, the loyalty, even through his darkest hours. The soft touches. His whit, his charm. How Dean had become his everything in such a short time.

How utterly in love he was.

Dean looked at him, a brilliant smile on his lips.

_Keep it_ , Joshua had said.

_Keep him._

Take a chance.

Castiel pulled Dean in by the back of his neck. There wasn't any fanfare or lingering, just the desperate impact of his mouth on Dean's. Their teeth clicked together in the rush, but he didn't care. Dean's lips were warm and wet, all over his in a way that made his knees weak. He tasted cinnamon and apple, a note of whisky that had Castiel jerking his hips forward, so fucking hard he needed something, _anything_ , to get him off. Dean must've felt the same way because Dean's hips were there too, grinding, creating friction that would make him come any second. It was like throwing lighter fluid on an already burning fire. Then, their tongues touched and Castiel exploded. He sucked in a sharp breath and shot his hips forward again, groaning, nearly losing it and completely gone on Dean and everything he was. Dean was his lifeboat on a vast ocean in the middle of a raging storm. The very air he breathed. 

His anchor.

His white knight.

Castiel grabbed Dean's threadbare shirt and yanked him in as if standing chest to chest just was fucking close enough. He couldn't stop kissing him because the thought of breaking apart was so painful. Dean pulled him in too, hungrily exploring his mouth with his tongue, grabbing him everywhere he could, soft sweet touches peppered where he couldn't. 

Their first kiss wasn't beautiful or romantic, but sloppy and wet, noses bumping together just to get that perfect angle. They pawed at each other like teenagers. Castiel slammed him back against the diving wall and dove at his lips again like a shark during a feeding frenzy. If Dean minded, he didn't show it, snaking his arms around his waist and squeezing, creating negative space where they blended together like water colors on a painting. Castiel had never felt so complete. In Dean's arms, safe, loved, he was whole. Reborn. 

_Saved_. 

Every single broken piece had been put back together again.

Castiel kept kissing Dean, sealing their mouths together with a surge of urgency he hadn't expected, with a love and a need so intense the power of it almost broke him in two. Dean let out a little noise and melted into him even more, kissing him until the absolute necessity of breathing drove them apart. Castiel took in a lungful of air, and so did Dean. Then, Dean smiled wide, happier than he'd ever seen him.

"I take it that was a yes?"

He blinked a little, confused, then he stole a sweet chaste kiss. Dean returned it with one of his own, then another, this one more sinful, deeper, making Castiel want to charge into the house and fuck Dean senseless. "I asked if you wanted to give 'us' another try. _Our_ terms," Dean murmured against his lips. "That was a yes, right?"

_Our terms._

"Yes," Castiel whispered in their little space, still a little breathless. " _Our_ terms." Then, he frowned. "Which means you keep the place tidy. No cowboy boots on the carpet. No—"

Dean covered his mouth again. "Anyone ever tell you you talk too much?"

Castiel frowned under his hand, but it didn't last long. Dean pulled his fingers away, whispered, "Our terms," and thumbed his bottom lip again. "I wanna try that kissing thing again... May I?"

He turned boneless in Dean's arms. It said _yes_ and _please_ , and Dean cupped his face, closing the chasm between them. The heat of Dean's nearness came first, searing his skin with need, then their lips touched, softly, gently, in a moment that tore through him and left him numb. Whatever he'd been afraid of before—commitment, being hurt ever again—washed away as Dean kissed him, and the way Dean held him, so tight and close, felt like forever. 

Castiel hinged his mouth open, surrendering, letting Dean inside. Dean licked his bottom lip as a means of asking permission, and Castiel groaned, sucking in a hard breath when Dean tightened his arm around him, leaned in, and deepened the kiss that had already stolen Castiel's breath away. Their tongues touched and explored. They made up for lost time. Missed opportunities. For every single time they should've kissed but hadn't. 

Dean broke it off for a moment, only to kiss him again, his bottom and upper lip, the seam in between, before pulling away completely. Lost without him, Castiel wavered until Dean took him by the wrist and led him through the small, quaint house. He didn't catch any of the finer details, could only concentrate on how hard his dick was, and how much he needed Dean inside him. How much he needed _him_.

The bed was big enough for the two of them, and he met it quickly. Dean pushed him back, and Castiel flopped on it, didn't have a chance to take a breath before Dean began taking off his clothes. Soon, they were naked, but not skin to skin, and Castiel whined with it, needing Dean all around him.

As always, Dean had other plans.

Dean spread him wide open on his back and bent low to lick at his inner thigh. Castiel jolted and held his breath as Dean moved inward, nosing his sack then lower, tonguing his hole tentatively. Mouthed him until Castiel only saw colors swirling behind his eyelids. The thick, flat surface of Dean's tongue rolled over his hole again and again, and he thought he'd come—almost did when the tip sunk in deep.

He sucked in a lungful of air, let it out in a _whoosh_ as Dean swirled his tongue around his tight opening. When Dean moved on to his balls, sucking one then the other, Castiel was met with utter elation. He arched his back as Dean took him inside his mouth and sucked like his life depended on it. Died a little on the inside when Dean kissed up to his nipples, sucking them both, before kissing him as hard as he dared. They kissed until they were breathless, until Dean pulled off and said, "Fuck, I could come just kissing you," and kissed him again.

Castiel felt complete when Dean pushed inside.

It was slow, inch by inch, Dean panting against his neck. Castiel opened himself up to him by spreading his legs, giving him everything he had. No restrictions this time, no rules. No impossible terms that were only his. He met every soft kiss on his lips with one of his own, just as sweet, like they'd been lovers since the day they'd met. Every touch Dean spared him he welcomed with a moan, a touch of his own, as a way of apologizing for being such an insufferable dick. Dean chuckled against his collarbone as if he knew, and kissed him there; on his neck too, his earlobe, following an invisible line back to his lips. They couldn't stop kissing each other.

He hoped they never would.

Once fully inside him, Dean kept his hips still, staring into his eyes and carding fingers through his hair. Castiel felt full, loved, something he'd never felt before, and arched up to capture Dean's lips with his again. They kissed for a while more before Dean pulled back a little, then pushed forward, sinking his cock in slowly, driving him absolutely _crazy_.

Castiel made a noise, a whimper maybe, but Dean kept his slow pace, making love to him—really making love to him—for the first time. Every thrust was transcendent, taking him higher, making him give up more. Every reservation he had about commitment, gone. Every fear he had about Dean tiring of him or leaving him, melted away. It was just the two of them as one. Wetness rimmed his eyes. He'd never been so... _happy_.

Dean kissed each one of his eyelids, his nose, then his mouth, devouring it. He acted as if all those days he'd spent with him, no kissing, had taken a toll on him. Castiel made it better by kissing him until their lips chaffed and bruised. Dean's groan was... deep, raw, _thankful_ , and it sent a shudder through his body. He didn't know if either of them would last very much longer.

The rhythm picked up then. Harder. Urgent.

Dean swept his tongue into his mouth, and Castiel groaned deep as the beginning of his orgasm twisted at the base of his spine. They kissed and kissed, each one never quite enough, and their sweet lovemaking turned rough. With every thrust, Castiel jolted higher up the bed. He held on tight, arms hooked under Dean's, and splayed fingers across his back. There, on Dean's skin, he could almost feel the ink swirling beneath his touch. He knew what lay there, both angel and demon, and he clung to them, bringing Dean closer. Their embrace was loving, breathtaking, and Castiel knew right then that he'd have all of Dean; demon and angel, messiness and loyalty, someone who could keep him in line while loving him all the same.

He was no longer afraid. He'd love Dean the rest of his life.

Their terms.

Castiel lost control in Dean's arms, coming hard as Dean thrust one last time. Dean tumbled off the edge with him, and together, they held each other as they came down, limbs entwined. Dean thumbed his cheek. It was one of his sweet, gentle touches that he'd never shy away from again.

He kissed Dean's bare chest and looked up at him. Dean blinked lazily and smiled, nuzzling his forehead as his eyelids drooped. Castiel nudged him, then said, "Kiss me."

"Oh, so you _want_ to be kissed now?" Dean chuckled, leaning close. "I don't know if you deserve it."

"Dean."

Dean grinned, nosing his nose. "Don't you worry." Soft kiss on his lips. "I'm going to kiss you every day for the rest of your life."

They kissed a little while longer. They were happy, hopeful, but one thing was missing.

Castiel slipped out of Dean's arms and bent low to find his pants. He searched each pocket, grabbed what he needed then crawled back in bed, snuggling tight against Dean's chest. Dean looked at his fist, then looked at him. Confused, a little curious.

He opened his hand. It was Dean's apartment key.

"Come home," Castiel whispered.

Dean's smile was like a sunrise. He gripped it tight and kissed him.

His kiss said _yes_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm horrible at knowing what to tag for. If you feel there's a tag missing, please leave a comment with your thoughts. Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> (And thank you to SurlyCat, avyssoseleison, and coplins for the suggestions so far!)


	21. Chapter 21

**DAY: 365+ and counting...**

Dean popped his head inside the walk-in closet. "Dude, come on. We're gonna be late."

Castiel shot him a look and went back to tying his tie in front of the full-length mirror. He smoothed down his wayward hair as Dean settled in next to him, bumping his shoulder to get more of the mirror space. Dean looked stunning in his fitted tuxedo, slim and hugging everywhere it counted. When Dean caught him staring, Dean winked. If they weren't late...

"Heard from your mom again today—hey, come here." Castiel turned automatically, and Dean started fixing his tie, his shirt collar, anything that needed adjusting. "She wants to meet us again for tea soon."

Castiel sighed. "I don't know why she calls you instead of me."

"She likes me better."

Castiel and his mother, Eve, had gotten in contact a few months ago after spending years not speaking at all. They aired their grievances, mended misconceptions, apologized. Over afternoon tea, Dean had charmed her with compliments on her new home outside of the City, in the rolling hills of Upstate New York. Then charmed her more with stories of his childhood, all told in that irresistible southern drawl of his. 

"I love him already," Eve had announced over flower-shaped tea biscuits. Dean winked at her.

In the hallway, after tea, Eve pulled Dean aside, conspiring but not quietly enough not to be heard. "Make an honest man out of my son soon, you hear me?"

"I plan to, ma'am."

"Grandkids—"

"They're comin'. I promise."

_Marriage. Children._

In their closet, Castiel slipped Dean a sidelong glance, and Dean grinned as if he knew what he'd been thinking. Dean had their whole lives planned out, and if Dean were the captain of their ship, and he definitely was, Castiel knew they'd be happy for the rest of their lives, no matter what happened.

Before long, Dean had to drag him out of the closet, out of the apartment and down into the parking garage. Butterflies fluttered in his gut. Castiel had insisted they take a limo, his car, anything but—

Dean grinned as he hopped on his motorcycle and turned the engine. It roared to life, and Castiel covered his ears with his hands. Car alarms wailed, but Dean just grinned even more, motioning him over. It took him eight tentative steps to get over his anxiety. Two more to get to the damn thing and five more minutes before he eventually climbed on. Dean reached back to squeeze his thigh in reassurance and then they were off. Castiel closed his eyes, clinging to Dean as if his life depended on it.

The church was small and beautiful, perfect for a wedding this size. Dean and Castiel settled in their places at the front, near the bridesmaids and other groomsmen. When Sam slipped into the room, his eyes were wide, his body language nervous. Dean, his best man, consoled him as much as he could, but all the soothing words in the world couldn't stop Sam from buzzing like a bee. 

Jessica was gorgeous in her Pnina Tornai wedding gown, hair upswept with loose strands kissing her cheek. The whole procession watched her walk down the aisle, stunned. After misty-eyed vows, after Dean hugged his brother tight and Jessica too, they headed to the reception.

There, families and friends mingled, danced and ate. Castiel saw the rest of Dean's family again. He remembered the burly, serious-faced Uncle Bobby and his wife Ellen from the family picnic several months ago. This time, they didn't threaten him bodily harm if he broke Dean's heart. They hugged him instead, and he instantly felt like a part of the family. Togetherness, family... it was something he hadn't felt in a long time.

While everyone else talked, laughed and drank, Castiel took up a quiet place at one of the tables. Dean came out of the crowd and joined him, claiming him with a hand on his thigh.

"This'll be us one day," he announced.

Castiel looked out over the reception. "Married?"

"Yep. Happy, too. _Maybe_ even a pet."

"Hm." Castiel turned his glass of champagne, considering. "What kind of pet?"

"A dog—"

"Not on my carpets."

"Well, I'm allergic to cats."

"How about a guinea pig, then?" 

Dean eyed him, turned his face up thoughtful, and nodded. "I could do that."

"After the business is up and running."

Castiel had invested in _Winchester's_ , a small restaurant that would serve the best hamburgers in New York City, cooked by Dean himself. Jessica would run the place, act as hostess, while Sam bussed, served, and anything in between. It would be their business together. The family business.

Their future looked incredibly bright.

Castiel and Dean were too caught up in each other to notice that Sam and Jessica had floated over to them, high on new marriage and smiles. Tired from dancing, bubbly on too much champagne and congratulations.

"Hey, lovebirds," Jessica said, all smiles and radiance.

"Got any relationship advice? Since, you know, you've been together for so long?" Sam asked cheekily.

Castiel looked over at Dean, and they stared at each other, carefully considering. Dean had taught him so many things about love. He wanted to tell them to let go of the past, take a chance, and compromise. Never give up on one another, no matter how hard it gets, and be patient, just like Dean had and was. He should've told them to love each other even if the fear of losing the other killed them. That love was stronger than fear and anyone who had ever hurt them. He should've told them to remember that they were only human beings, that they'd make mistakes, but if they could come together in the end, and still love each other, then it didn't matter.

But he said, "Make sure he cleans up after himself and doesn't make a lot of _noise_ ," instead.

Dean smiled that mischievous smile of his and added, "Don't be afraid to kick him when he snores. He's all bark, no bite."

"Remind him about his horrible taste in boxer shorts every chance you get."

"Keep your cowboy boots on the carpet, no matter what he says. He secretly loves the stains," Dean fired back.

"Pretend he makes delicious food."

"Holy shit, Cas. That was low," Dean laughed, then said in a sultry rumble, "Kiss his favorite spots all the time. His hipbones are his favorite."

"Kick him out when it gets too complicated," Castiel shot back, embarrassed and scandalized.

Dean grinned at him. "You wouldn't dare."

Castiel smirked, and Dean grabbed him by the neck, pulling him in, kissing him hard. If Sam and Jessica were still around, they wouldn't be soon with how heated and downright dirty their kiss had become. Castiel pulled back breathless, watching as a satisfied grin stretched over Dean's face. The grin fell, and Castiel knew immediately why: he was smiling, too. This time, he didn't hide it away, and Dean brushed his cheek with the backs of his fingers.

After all they'd been through, both highs and lows...

"Dean," Castiel breathed. "I love you."

"I know." Dean winked, then sealed their lips together, soft and sweet. 

His kiss said _I love you, too._

_I always will._

And Castiel believed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has read, commented, and left kudos. I'm so very grateful. I wanted to especially thank those who have commented on every chapter, making me feel a part of a wonderful community brought together by this story. I had SO much fun interacting with everyone and getting to know you. It made the experience so much better and so fulfilling.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this story as much as I enjoyed writing it! Thank you again for making this story a part of your lives!<333


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